The Hecate Cycle
by oqidaun
Summary: The sequel to "The Ghost in the Machine". More overblown allusions and erudite symbolism than you can shake a stick at... INCOMPLETE.
1. Path to Erebus

**The Hecate** **Cycle**

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:** Opening lyrics from _Sin_ (Nine Inch Nails, Halo Four)

**Ratings: **

± Complete work:  **R** for Language and Violence. 

± Chapter One: **PG** for Mild Violence.  

Cycle I: Sacrilege Chapter 1 The Path to Erebus 

You give me the reason

You give me control

I gave you my purity 

My Purity you stole

Cloth soled shoes scuffed across the uneven tiles.  Her old fingers carefully folded the patterned paper napkins diagonally and placed them under each fork.  Napkins were always folded diagonally for dinner, square at lunch if folded at all, but dinner was special.  The oven timer rang and the old feet scuffed towards the unreliable appliance to reset the timer for another twelve minutes.  A car backfired in the street and she hurried to the window to scold her dogs before the barking began.  The weather segment of the news cued up with a poorly sampled outtake of Vivaldi and the woman in the orange housecoat hustled into the living room. 

The boy in front of her bought seven packages of hotdogs and only two bags of buns.  Where was the logic there?  The tabloids predicted that it would be the coldest winter on record and the oceans would freeze, three months before the same tabloids predicted that the summer would be the hottest on record and the oceans would catch fire.  She put the plastic basket on the conveyor belt and pulled the most ridiculous of the tabloids off the rack for closer inspection.  The hot dog boy was paying in change and government vouchers, a maneuver well beyond the sales clerk's retail abilities.  Two boys dressed in baggy jeans and dirty white tank tops hovered around the exit.  She noted the blue bandanas tied low across their brows and the DIY green tattoos covering their bare arms.  Loud music thumped outside as a predatory car circled the building.  

"Excuse me." An arm brushed past her and seized a copy of TV Guide off the rack.  She recognized him from the frozen food aisle and watched him thumb through the pages, locate his program and put the magazine back on the shelf.  

"Cost effective approach to viewing you have there."  The sales clerk paged the manager and the digital screen flashed 'Invalid Tender Code' viscously.  

"The programming never really changes. On occasion there's a breaking news story to upset the order of things, but the system compensates and everything gets covered up.  We go back to watching _Leave it to Beaver_ reruns and the apathy returns."  

"So what were you looking up?" 

"When _Leave it to Beaver _will be on tomorrow." 

The smell of burnt lasagna woke her and she rushed across the dark room into the kitchen, grabbing her plaid oven mitts and yanking the door open.  Quickly she set the glass-baking dish on the stove and pulled back the aluminum foil. "God damn oven!" Angrily, she twisted the dial to the off position and kneed the door to get the light to go out. She looked over her shoulder at the plastic crucifix staring down at her.  "Forgive me," the old woman made a cross of her thumb and index finger and kissed it.  "Is the lasagna worth it?"  A sigh escaped her as she poked the burnt cheese and tomato sauce with the spatula.  "I know, I know.  Today it is the lasagna and tomorrow it'll be the oven.  The next day it'll be the cursed apartment and the day after I'll be a young woman on a beach in Sicily with suitors lined up and no cataracts."  She took put the aluminum foil back and uncorked the cheap bottle of Chianti. "It is tempting though," she pulled an old vinyl chair across the floor and sat down with her glass of wine.  "What kind of example would I be setting?  Of course what kind of example is this place?  We've got rats, you know?"  The dogs scratched at the back door.  

The black car parked in front of Food Town vibrated from the bass and its occupants sat out next to it on the curb.  Ten eager eyes watched her move through the automatic doors carrying two plastic sacks.  Her keys were at the ready in her fist and she did not prolong eye contact with the young men.   She hurried across the parking lot.  The sun was setting and a thick shadow descended between the vehicles.  

"Yo, yo, Prom Queen!"  A voice called out behind her.  "Where's your pom-poms?"  She stopped.

"Up your ass, Hector!"  She rolled her eyes and turned around.  "Stop casing Food Town.  This sorry ass place gets robbed one more time and they'll shut it down for good."  

"We ain't casing nothing, Sephi, 'cept you."  

"How romantic! I forgot how charming you and your dropout homies are.  Get me some roses and expensive perfume and we'll talk, but this supermarket stalking doesn't cut it." 

The screen door needed some WD-40 on its hinges to keep everyone on the block from knowing how many times she let the dogs in and out.  "Leo and Equus, you want inside when you're outside and outside when you're inside. You have the consistency of the tides."  She stopped and looked out into the evening as the dogs raced by her.  Diana Mundi's eyes strayed to her faded gold tone Timex.  Backing into the house she latched the screen and pushed the wooden door shut turning the first deadbolt immediately.  

"You dropped this," the voice appeared behind her.  

"What?" She turned and looked down at the coins in the stranger's hand. "Those aren't mine."  Blindly, she pushed the keys into the door lock. 

"People don't drop gold coins everyday.  Of course they're yours."  

"No they're not." Her hand gripped the handle of the jeep's door and she put her foot on the running board.  He moved a step closer.  

"Look, any minute my friends are going to come over here we're all headed out—"

 "I don't think they are.  Why don't you take your coins?  It's all I offer."

"I don't want them," she thought about screaming.

"But you're going to need them," he jingled the old coins in his palm and raised it. 

"What for?" She had the door partially open and the grocery bags between her and his body.   

"To pay the ferryman."  Suddenly, he shoved the hand with the coins under her nose.  She flinched and stepped backwards into the door. His hand slammed her head into the glass.  

* * *

The setting sun traced anemic stripes through the peach colored clouds and there was no threat of rain.  A scalding Saturday afternoon receded into a warm August night.  The boardwalk swarmed with scantily clad bodies milling about idly to a cacophony music ranging from industrial to folk. As the daylight waned the shops opened and the crowds bled in to buy vintage clothing, books, frozen Daiquiris and records or indulge in the ritual of body piercings and tattoos.  The fleshy crowd consisted of conformists looking for adventure, misfits seeking anonymity, angst ridden teenagers whose parents thought they were somewhere else, disillusioned parents who hoped they wouldn't run into their children, working class skinheads, Ivy League yuppies, predators and prey.  It was an amalgamation of humanity.  

Defying the steady flow of bodies up and down the boardwalk, she stood in the middle of the walkway as an immoveable sentinel. Despite the heat she wore a long skirt, black leather jacket, and heavy soled boots. The crowds surged around her, but no one paid attention to the pale creature for fear they would see themselves reflected in the dark glasses.  The dancing bears and somersaulting clowns made oblivious circles around their ringmaster.  

A smug smile settled on her lips and she began to cut through the crowd.  The mob thinned as she neared the fishing piers and commercial wharves. The small bright-eyed creature became little more than a indistinguishable shadow floating along the water's edge. Even as she grew ephemeral her step remained purposeful and focused. 

Forty minutes later she was curled up on the end of the peacock-patterned couch at the Bean Tree drinking espresso and reading a well-worn copy of _Paradise Lost_ that someone had left behind. She kept her satchel close and her headphones hung around her neck. The barista brought her another demitasse and sat down on the arm of the couch.  

"Kai, tonight you are alone?" He was Moroccan and spoke broken English with a thick French accent.  She called him Camus as she had finished reading _The Plague_ the day she noticed him. His real name failed to concern her.

"I am." 

"The boy is gone?" He twisted the end of his white linen apron and stared at the Turkish rug.   

"Boy?" The book lowered.   

"The one…uh, he come with you sometime?" 

"Oh, right, Toby."  She raised the book.  "We had a bit of a falling out and he won't be back."  Coolly, she gestured to the herd of patrons lining up at the counter.  "Thanks for the espresso, Camus." 

The thin man sitting at the other end of the couch looked up from his newspaper and cleared his throat.  "I think he likes you."

Her eyes remained on the page, "That's not in his best interests, Alsace." 

* * *

Rosy-fingered dawn struggled to tear her way through the boards nailed across the empty windows of the abandoned hanger.  Heavy chalk colored tarpaulins draped the remains of broken fuselages, engines and wings.  The gray illumination from the shattered skylights cast narrow shadows across the ghostly carcass of the fallen angel.  The Capital Airlines DC-10's broken pieces were meticulously labeled and arranged on the hanger floor in a gruesome semblance of its former glory.  Some sections were less molested from the flames and complications of a 6,000 foot freefall than others, the slightly charred seats near the tail attesting to an undisclosed perk of flying coach.  Exactly three years to the date, 13 August, the FAA investigation had ended inconclusively. 

"You want to do it here?" He whispered. 

"My little Eros, I didn't think you would be so picky. Come now, we'll join the 'Mile High Club' the easy way."  A firm hand rested on his shoulder and the sound of four crisp twenty-dollar bills unfolding filled his ears.  

"No worries, buddy, as long as you've got the cash I don't care if you want to do it in the middle of the friggin' K-Mart parking lot.  You know I ain't ever been on a plane.  We gonna go first class?" 

Silence descended and a cloud passed in front of the sunrise. A thick layer of white dust slept on the forgotten mechanical morgue.   

"Tell me Eros, do you believe in genetic evil?"   


	2. Entropy Enshrined

The 

H e c a t e C  y  c  l  e 

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:** Opening lyrics from _Good Riddance_ (Green Day, Nimrod)

**Rating: **

± **R** for Mild Violence and Language.  

.  ****

**Chapter 2**

**Entropy Enshrined**

So take the photographs, 

and still frames in your mind.

Hang it on a shelf of heath and good time.

Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial.

For what it's worth, 

It was worth all the while.

_Sunday 13 August. 2045 hrs. _

The corrugated steel door swung in the evening breeze banging a death knell against the side of the hollow building.  A violated padlock lay on its side in the depression in front of the door, a portent of the disorder within. Warily, Peter Argus climbed out of the security truck.  He took note of the gaping door and snatched his two-way radio off the passenger seat. The tired cliché 'better safe than sorry' possessed a special poignancy for a father of three who made $9.50 an hour.

Uneven gravel crunched beneath his feet and he almost stepped over the padlock.  Instinctively, his hand dropped to the motley collection of keys hanging from his canvas belt. The padlock was intact with its flimsy aluminum key forgotten in the locking mechanism. He switched on his flashlight and crossed the threshold. A warm anxiety twisted itself around him.

Burnt Buttery Pop. The smell of the scorched plastic and upholstery reminded Argus of all his misadventures with microwaveable popcorn. He loathed that smell. He also loathed what lurked in the hanger. He could feel it—hubris, ignorance and death encased in aluminum and flung back to the earth in flames.

The twisted corpse of the DC-10 gave him nightmares and did little to alleviate his intense aviophobia.  Argus was content to keep both feet firmly on the ground and leave the flying to those with wings, even if it meant spending his life trapped behind an eight-foot fence.  Steeling his nerves with thoughts of the meatloaf sandwich his wife packed on Sunday evenings, he pressed into the dusty maze.  

As it swept from side to side, the flashlight's beam roused the shadows. Inspired by the shadows and encouraged by his own fears, Argus decided to make a brisk circle of the building before snapping the padlock back on the door and leaving the unhappy spirits to their haunting.  The meandering light landed in the empty space representing the first class section of Capital Airlines Flight 858.  The light wavered in his trembling hands. "Dear God," the security guard breathed and stumbled backwards.  He flung the flashlight to the ground and hid himself in the innocence of the darkness. Argus had good eyes and tonight he wished with all his heart that he had been born blind.   

* * *

It was a red restaurant with a green name. Neither the menu nor décor appeared to have changed since 1953.  The payphone accepted dimes and a Lucky Strike cigarette machine dominated the oak paneled lobby. A poor Zagat rating raised no alarm for the proprietor, as the possibility of a serious food critic brooding over the salad dressings in one of the oversized booths was miniscule. Conversely, the thought of a health inspector brooding over the salad dressings caused considerable distress. The Emerald Lounge had its strong points: the dim lighting compensated for the wilty lettuce, the patterned carpet did not show stains and most people had forgotten about the waitress found hanging from the hooks in the meat locker. Simply put, it was an anachronistic place for anachronistic people.  

Three men in gray flannel suits sat behind lukewarm coffees. In their midst, a narrow figure drew an elaborate map on the back of a take-out menu.  His green City Telephone uniform grew darker due to his uncontrollable sweating. The map passed silently amongst the men in suits and was handed back to its artist accompanied by three identical frowns. The waitress returned periodically ignoring the sunglasses, the earpieces and the automatic weapons conspicuous under the well-tailored suits.    

Dean Martin and stainless steel scraping against commercial grade crockery provided the score for the telephone man's Faustian arrangement. The map underwent a few modifications and the narrow figure smiled triumphantly when it was not passed back for any more.  Quinton Sealing thanked them for the coffee and accepted a white envelope from the youngest looking of three. A spring surfaced in his step as he walked away. Idyllically, he waved to the hostess, dropped a dollar in a jar for a children's charity and left the Emerald Lounge for the last time.   No one would ever quite understand why he decided to put a bullet through his head four hours later during an infomercial.   

"You think she would have sat somewhere else." Brown directed his attention to a loud woman in a blue dress with a hat that belonged on a carthorse. 

Smith looked up briefly from Sealing's sketch of illegal telephone connections and splices. "That would be the logical thing to do." 

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when we lie to deceive." 

"Who lies with any other purpose? You sound as rational as that female appears to be," Jones snorted and took a cautious sip of the cold coffee.   

Brown shrugged, "It's just a saying—a maxim of sorts."

"I will make a note of it."

"Her name is Elizabeth Henderson. She is forty two years old, a housewife and lives six blocks from here." The woman slid to the edge of the booth and made a show of letting her companion help her to her feet.  With an inebriated dearth of grace, she smoothed her short dress and tugged at her pantyhose. Smith removed his dark glasses and bided his time for effect.  He cleared his throat. "See you next week, Mrs. Henderson." A devilish grin seared his lips.  The woman blanched and herded her confused quarry towards the exit.  

"That was sadistic." Brown watched approvingly as she stole one last nervous glance at them. "She will now think her husband has hired us to follow her." Mechanically, he raised his hand to his earpiece and his seriousness resurfaced.  

"Undoubtedly, when she returns next week, I will have to continue this pathetic charade."  Smith followed Jones across the red bench and scooped his green portfolio off the table. 

* * *

"I was beginning to ask myself if this fucking night could get any worse and more Feds show up." Detective Murray shimmied under the crime scene tape.  Wordlessly, Smith flashed his credentials and dismissed the detective's antagonism. The detective continued,  "I don't give a shit tonight, boys. If you want this mess it's all yours.  I don't know about you, but it's too damn hot out here to deal with a body in bits and a not a piece of fucking evidence to be found." He threw up his hands. "God, I wanted a nice quiet evening and I get this shit dropped in my lap."

Heavy-duty emergency floodlights exorcised the shadows and the flash of a camera chased away the remaining uninvited spirits. The sanctity of the FAA investigation had been thoroughly desecrated.  Smith barely noticed the fragments of the DC-10 as he stepped over them and the detective pushed by a pair of uniformed officers sitting on the edge of a fuselage fragment.  

Another soul had unwillingly joined the ghosts of First Class.

"What you see is what you get." He gestured to the naked body painstakingly cleaved at the joints and spread out in a sinister parody of the dismembered DC-10. "Male prostitute, Asian, about fifteen or sixteen years we're guessing.  No id.  Black nail polish and a few piercings, but the jewelry has been removed," Murray paused and pointed to the floor two feet from the top joint of the victim's right middle finger. "The butcher really seemed to like this." A tattooed section of flesh had been meticulously flayed from the small of the back and placed on the dusty cement floor where the window for seat 6C should have been. "Can't say much about him, except this is the cleanest fucking scene I've ever come across and I've been working in this hellhole for fifteen years.  Shit, I'm going to be stuck here all night waiting to get the go ahead to put this mess in the meat wagon," he sighed, but his self-pity was wasted on Smith.

"No outward signs of drug abuse, but the guys from the coroner's office will probably find something.  These kids all do it for drug money. The best we can do is state the obvious: this was a thrill kill and definitely not amateur work," he exhaled, as though articulating the unspeakable had relieved him of a physical burden.  "You boys can have all the fun of coming up with those pesky details." He jerked his thumb towards the two photographers. "Oh, and your profiler showed up about ten minutes ago. She's a piece of work."  

Smith's jaw tightened. 

"Agent Thoreau." The name fell from his lips like a curse. "There is no reason for you to be here." 

She ignored him while she removed the film from the camera and deposited it in her satchel. "Charmed to see you, Agent Smith.  I guess I now have two stiffs to deal with." 

"This is out of your jurisdiction."   

"No, this is my jurisdiction."  She handed the camera back to the evidence photographer.  

"I believe, Agent Thoreau, psychology ends when the body gets cold."    

"Good point, but he's a Void, Smith," she lowered her voice and put her hands on her hips. "Voids are my jurisdiction—dead or alive."  

"Very well, I leave you to your investigation."  Smith turned on his heel.  

"You're not out of this one."

"I do not deal with Voids—that's your jurisdiction."

"It may not be that simple. You know Voids aren't easy to kill. This," she gestured towards the body, "is like the fly killing the spider. His intended victim chopped him to bits."

"Then _your_ suspect is most likely another Void," he smirked.  "The ball is in your court, Agent Thoreau."  

"Not entirely. There are three possibilities. It could be another Void, but they're typically too clannish to be this violent towards one another and they prefer to settle their differences privately.  Or it could be a Subversive disconnected from the system.  Subversives and Voids usually don't get along—happens when you have two different takes on the meaning of life." She took a deep hollow breath, "If it's a Subversive, and there's a strong possibility that it is, you and I share jurisdiction."  

"That's only two possibilities, Agent Thoreau." 

"It could also be an agent." 

"That is absurd, even for you." 

"Is it?  There's an inch of dust in here and not one print that cannot be traced to the security guard or the first responders.  The body is clean—there's not a drop of blood out of place.  And it wouldn't be a first—"

"A matter of manipulation of which a number of individuals are capable. One dead Void, Thoreau, and I am not going to turn this world upside down.  There are far more important things—" 

"As long as there is a possibility that it was a Subversive or an agent you are involved.   Subversion is an Enforcement issue. The closest I get to Subversives are Voids who have strayed down the primrose path."  A loaded smile snaked across her lips. "Looks like we're in this one together."  

He was not programmed to be annoyed, but he had evolved considerably over the years and turned annoyance into a highly cultivated art.  If human, he would have had blood pressure high enough to impress the most discerning of cardiologists and a Type A personality to give the most stalwart of therapists fits.  For twenty minutes, he lorded over the detectives and absorbed as much information has he felt necessary.  Finally, he reached a breaking point with the floodlights, the dust and Thoreau's voice, so he decided to step outside and reorganize his thoughts.  The doorway was perilously narrow and as he stormed out he nearly collided with Jones. 

"What were you doing outside?" 

"I was reviewing evidence with the forensics team and giving them permission to clear the scene." The taller agent brushed by and disappeared into the hanger. 

Away from the confusion, Smith leaned up against the black government sedan and began reviewing procedural protocols for dual division investigations. Given the choice, he would rather be trapped in a broom closet with a nearsighted sentinel or clean up biofluids on a pod farm than work with Agent Thoreau or, for what it was worth, any other spook.  He did not like them, which further added to his irritation as he was programmed to be indifferent. He was not supposed to care, but such errors happened whenever one was exposed to a spook.  They were infected and contagious. Their disease was both chronic and ultimately lethal. They were imperfect. 

He ground his teeth and folded his arms. Realizing how apparent—how human—his irritation was, he corrected his composure and rested his hands against the car behind him. 

"Damnit," Smith cursed the dust and spun around.  His irritation vanished. In the thin white layer of dust someone had made distinctive printed letters.  The letters merged into words and the words into a phrase.

Exitus acta probat 

 Effortlessly he accessed the Latin translation. "The end justifies the means." 

* * * 

Tired hands pulled the door open, eyes met and a sigh escaped her lips.  Cloth soled shoes padded back across the avocado colored shag carpeting and she watched him sit down. The poorly croqueted afghan slipped off the faux leather sofa.  

"You seem worried."  He sat on the edge of the cushion. His eyes focused on the fused cluster of hard candies in the amber colored dish.  Delicate hands clenched an old fedora. 

"Oh? I'm just tired." 

"You don't have to be." 

"Yes, I do.  I'm old."  She picked the afghan off the floor.

"Again, Diana, you don't have to be." 

"Are you just here to offer me apples and eternal youth or is there some other purpose to your visit?" 

"I came to see the girl.  I've heard a lot about her."

"You may not see her."  

"I offer no ill will.  I just want to speak with her."

"I know what you offer and you can't speak to her."  The dogs barked.  "She's not home."  

Several long minutes passed.

He rose to his feet and replaced his hat.  "I am not the enemy, Diana."  

"Nor are you an ally, Alsace."  


	3. A Perfect World

**The **

H e c a t e 

**C  y  c  l  e**

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:** Opening lyric taken from _Happiness in Slavery_ (NIN, Halo 5) Additional quote taken from _Leave it to Beaver, © _American Broadcasting Company (1957-1963) 

**Rating: **

± **PG13-R** for Language.  Some implied violence and general weirdness. .  

Chapter 3

A Perfect World 

Don't open your eyes you won't like what you see

The devils of truth steal the souls of the free

Don't open your eyes take it from me

I have found

You can find

Happiness in slavery

Happiness in slavery

Wally: I tried to fry'em, but they got all messed up, so I scrambled'em.

Beaver: Yeah, it's funny how things can get away from you like that…

A buzz and crackle heralded the death of the old console set and the grinding chorus of the ceiling fan grew louder. _The Collected Works of Tennyson_ slammed down on the nightstand perpetuating a tinkling aftershock through the glass vials and bottles.  Bare feet slipped across the dirty cement avoiding the drains and the dial clicked impotently as it twisted through the channels.   Slow footsteps returned and a ringed finger scraped along the length of the bed rail's cracked mint colored enamel. 

"Is that the end of my perfect world or do I bring in another set?" the voice whispered. "What a beautiful false place, everything in perfect order and everyone deluded into thinking they are perfectly happy.  Why can't this world be like that one? I want TV dinners in aluminum trays, black and white television, magazines with casserole recipes that always require hotdogs, family secrets kept secret and a Tuesday night bowling league. I would be content in that world just like the Cleavers in Mayfield.  I would be everyone's favorite neighbor. I'd loan out my new snow shovel, buy raffle tickets, build a patio with a nice brick barbeque and never complain about an errant baseball through my picture window.  I would have a family room with plaid curtains, end tables and wax fruit.  When the newspaper boy vanished, I'd invite everyone into my home to organize the search and serve punch.  The good neighbor would even make the first donation to the memorial scholarship after they found the body. Everyone would laugh and smile, even though they were terrified to take out the garbage after dark." A labored sigh. "Alas, _your_ world is plagued with a festering apathy.  I find it sick and confused, and I do not think it is fair that some refuse to play by the rules." 

A slender vial toppled and rolled across the metal tray. Down a wide empty hall a telephone rang.

"I apologize for your head.  I really am sincere about it.  I planned on us having lovely conversations to pass our time together. There were so many questions I wanted to ask you and things I wanted to learn.  I curse my stupidity. I got angry that night, because I wanted to make it home in time to watch _My Three Sons_.  You made me miss my program. Eleven minutes in the produce section and another six looking at frozen pizzas?  I know that kid in line with the food stamps was not your doing, but you took your time walking out and flirting with those boys. Persephone, you must learn to be more considerate of others." 

A nail tapped the glass syringe accompanied by a pleasant laugh.   

"If you live in a world of shadows it is difficult to understand how dark the night can be. I will bloody the crossroads and the greasy smoke from my sacrifice will stain the polluted sky.  I will teach the keeper the definition of evil.  The spirits will learn fear.  And I shall give my stolen fire to the travelers. " 

Soft hands peeled the starched sheets back and slipped the hypodermic needle into the cool flesh. The agonized shriek of the ceiling fan slurred and miles away the telephone continued to ring.  

"Float on my gift of sleep and feast on pomegranates. I promise you that the nightmare will be waiting when you wake."

* * *

A dark ring of Colombian coffee saturated the lead story of the arts and entertainment section. The article focused on the local ska band _Sun Seer_ and the perils of outdoor concerts during lightening storms.   Kai took note of the show dates and her attention wandered to the bright world at the edge of the green awning.  A salty breeze propelled a handbill for a 1-900 psychic hotline along the deserted sidewalk.  

"You need refill?" Camus quickly slipped out the door in a vain attempt to keep the refrigerated spirits from escaping.  

"I felt like I was being watched." 

"You are so fair skinned.  The bright sun is no good for you." Without respect to any convention regarding personal space, the handsome Moroccan stretched over her and seized the ink-smudged mug.  "Come inside."

She rolled her eyes and tried to wipe the cheap newsprint off her hands with a paper napkin.  "Can't, I'm waiting for someone."

As the afternoon wore on, the sun began to lose its intensity. Camus continued to flirt with reckless abandon and the sea breeze picked up a touch of moisture. Kai drank more coffee and waited.  

"I've been wondering when I was going to see you around. Three days and I've not heard a damn thing about our joint investigation."

"Agent Thoreau," he greeted her with a polite nod. 

"Kai."

"What?"

"Call me Kai, Brown. I prefer Kai to Thoreau as I'm not the go-to-the-woods-to-suck-the-marrow-out-of-life type."  She gestured to the empty seat beside her.  

"Right, you have a first name. Smith calls that one of the myriad idiosyncrasies of psych." He sat down and struggled to cultivate a look of ease.  

"Really? I'll have to put together a list of the idiosyncrasies of enforcement and see if there's enough for a myriad or at least a personality or two." Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Camus staring maliciously at Brown.  A flash of humor crossed her face. Camus had nothing to stress over.  "What have you brought me on the hanger murder?"

"Nothing. We have not moved on it and have no immediate plans to do so.  It has received a lower priority rating than our other investigations and I have come to tell you that the file will be transferred to the appropriate local authorities."

"What?" She checked herself. "A Void is murdered, we get a message that 'the end justifies the means' and you guys give it a low enough priority to shift it back to local?"

"Yes. To quote Smith, he said that he did not care if all of the Voids were dismembered."

"This is a joint investigation."

"Smith thinks that— "

"A joint investigation means two or more divisions working on the same problem.  Protocol requires a complete investigation of any significant uncontrolled and _especially_ unauthorized anomaly within the Matrix.  That crime scene was nothing but anomalies—the residual energy level alone was high enough for a priority response by both SPOO and ENF protocols.  It's my partial jurisdiction as it involves a Void and it's yours as the perpetrator may have been either a subversive or an agent program in error.  I thought we reached this agreement on Sunday night"

"Smith later decided that the event was an isolated incident.  He says—"

"Stop quoting Smith," she hissed. "That file is not going any where. It will take my authorization in addition to his to transfer it, so I'm going to have to hear all this first hand soon enough."  For an angry moment she lost herself in the uneven texture of the mass-produced piece of lawn furniture. Unexpectedly, she rose to her feet and trotted to the edge of the shade.  Brown materialized at her shoulder.  "Act natural."

"What?"

"It's my informant. Try not to look so…enforcement-like."

"How do I do that?"

It was too late.  "Spaz!"  She sprang on a densely freckled young man in a _Sex Pistols_ tee shirt and baggy plaid shorts.  "You stood me up yesterday."

"I, uh…" The dark eyes behind the wire rim glasses fixed on Brown. "I had an appointment."

"Don't lie to me, Spaz.  Remember, ours is a relationship based on trust and love."

"You scare the fucking shit out of me, Kai, that's what our relationship is based on."

"Fair enough."  She clamped her small hand around his elbow and maneuvered him to her table. "Tell me about what's up."

"Not much."

"You're a bit edgy for 'not much.'"

"You've got an Agent standing behind you, Kai.  That tends to make me a bit more edgy than usual."

"He's on a leash, Spaz." She briefly redirected her attention. "Sit down, Brown and get comfy." Viselike fingers continued to tear into the freckled flesh and Brown watched curiously as he took his seat. "We're going to talk about someone I anticipate you know."

"Who?" Kai was performing in front of an audience and Spaz doubted she would buy him a café latte and want to talk about music afterwards.

"Danh Tù."

"I've heard of him."

"Do you know where he's hanging out these days?"  

"Rumor has it that he's chillin' at the morgue."

"Really?  How do you figure he ended up there?"

"I think it had something to do with his head and whole lot of other important parts getting forcibly disconnected from his body."

"Where did you hear this?" Her voice grew serious.

"Informants have informants, too."

"How many people know?"

"Handful."

"Let's keep it that way.  Now," her tone lightened. "I'd be tickled pink if you would tell me who chopped him up."

"Don't fucking know, wasn't me."

"No shit?" The dangerous look returned to her green eyes, yet she continued to smile. "Give me a hand here, Spaz, so I can write this off and get back to sitting on my ass. Did Tù have any enemies?  Who's he pissed off lately?"

"Ran his mouth a lot and irritated the hell out of everyone. Damn obnoxious, but not in a way that would make you want to murder him."

"How strong?"  

Spaz glanced over his shoulder and cleared his throat. "Tù wasn't a lightweight. He was young, though, and reckless.  He liked to screw around with people and tended to get stupid."

"What'd he go for?" 

"Weird shit. I talked to him a couple times when I was pulling together the info on Sean Kelly. He hung out on Adams Street with the heroin kids." A freckled hand disappeared into his pocket and produced a stick of gum. "He liked big men, the strong kind, like Ward Cleaver or some other Mr. American type. Got off on the ones that were all Rotary Club and egg salad sandwiches during the day and cruising Adams Street for a little tail the minute the wife stepped out to a PTA meeting." The gum disappeared into his mouth and he began to intricately crease the foil and wax paper wrapper. "He'd get them all worked up and suck'em dry. Never left any thing coherent behind. Felt like he was doing some sort of public service." 

"He probably was.  You say he liked big clean-cut guys, anything more specific?" 

"Went for guys over six foot tall.  I don't know the rhyme or reason behind the height fetish."

"Age?"

"I think he liked the older ones." 

"We have a possibility that a forty-fifty something sitcom-dad type picked him up for a cheap thrill and chopped him to bits?" She groaned. "How often did he hang out on Adams Street?"

"I suppose once a week depending on the hit.  Probably why he liked the big guys.  I don't think he was addicted, but he had a pretty steady habit."

"Who did he run around with?"

"The only other Void he ever mentioned besides Sean was a guy named Bocky.  I've heard the name before, but I don't know many details. What I do know is that he's real close to the center."

"Very interesting.  How close?"

"I imagine he gets a Christmas fruitcake from Alsace. I don't know how Tù knew him or what he was all about." He paused for a moment in thought. "As far as Tù goes, that's pretty much everything I know."

She nodded pensively and released him, leaving a deep purple bruise reminiscent of her left thumb and forefinger wrapped around his elbow. "Thanks, Spaz, as always you will be rewarded substantially."

"Look, Kai," he lowered his voice.  "I really don't want to be associated with any of this. I don't even want to know anything about it.  From what I heard—oh, fuck it. Please keep me out of this.  I know it wasn't one of us." His eyes darted towards Brown and quickly back to Kai. "I heard what happened in Bangkok," he stammered and stumbled up and away from the table. "I don't wanna die that way."

"Spaz." Kai got to her feet and charged after him. "I'm in control here."

"Shit, I heard about the crime scene." He hurried down the sidewalk refusing to meet her eyes. At the end of the block he stopped and turned to her. "Kai, this will sound stupid coming from me, but watch yourself. There's something out there.  I've felt it."

Brown was waiting at the edge of the awning holding Kai's newspaper, perfectly folded. His soft blue eyes settled on her and a quizzical frown creased the corners of his lips. Straightening the wayward strap of her black camisole with one hand, she seized the newspaper with the other.

"How do you do it?" 

"Do what?"

"Interact.  You are quite proficient in the way you blend in and communicate with them.  Your speech, dress and mannerisms—seemingly everything about you puts them at ease. Your mastery of their slang is also considerable.   He spoke to you as though you were one of them, yet he knew you were definitely not."  Quite openly and innocently, Brown's gaze roved down her body.

"You sound impressed." She smirked, put her hands on her hips and stuck out her chest.  If he wanted to be obvious, she could play the same game.   

"I am intrigued, but I do not find such familiarity with them impressive.  It's dangerous to become close to them. They are not to be emulated.  They are to be controlled."

Her hands slipped from her hips into her pockets and her eyes narrowed into an icy squint. "Do not ever presume you can tell me how to do my job. I've been here day one." 

"I am not offering instruction," his voice softened.  "Granted I do criticize your method, but I am genuinely intrigued with how your programming has incorporated so many of their behaviorisms without becoming completely corrupted." 

"We're evolutionary."

"Yes, I agree.  Fortunately, enforcement does not have to rely on evolution as we are perfect." 

The wide-eyed look of incredulity that stole across her face made her look like a disturbed caricature of Lucille Ball. "That's rich, Brown!" Violent laughter rattled her small frame. "That's the funniest fucking thing I've ever heard."

"I do not understand why that is humorous." 

"Because it's so far from the truth and you said it with a straight face.  Why don't you put a red rinse in your hair, stick your nose in the air and start calling yourself Smith."

"But my name is Brown."

She continued to laugh. "Maybe we should ditch this whole policing false reality shtick and take our act on the road.  When we hit Vegas, I'll take you to eat pie."

"I like my job." Brown's voice betrayed pride.  "I would, however, like to learn about pie, Agent Thoreau."

"Kai."

"Right."

* * * 

Hypnotically, he watched as the setting sun traced its fiery fingertips over her.  Surging toward and cowering from its warm embrace in the same instant, she thrust her figure upwards letting the last rays of sunlight caress her, while keeping her lower expanses coyly enveloped in inviting shadow.  As the flaming sphere crept closer to explore her intimate curves, the twilight trap of her sweet seduction sprang and imprisoned her fiery would-be lover in darkness.  

Fifty-seven stories above the illusion of steel and concrete, drinking in the intoxicating mixture of domination and deception, he reveled in the pain of desire.  Smith pulled his hands back from the cold glass and laced his fingers behind him. A private smile twisted across his lips while his inhuman blue eyes revealed little of the complexities they concealed. As the dying sun succumbed to the night, a rich radium luminescence rose up to take its place. For this moment he lived.    

The labyrinth belonged to the Minotaur.


	4. The First Crossroads: Caveat

**THE**

H E C A T E 

**C Y C L E**

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:** Opening and closing lyrics taken from _Live for the Moment _ (Monster Magnet, Forceable Entry) 

**Rating: **

± **PG13/R **for Language.    

**Chapter Four**

**The First Crossroads: Caveat**

There's a little pile of ashes 

Where my old life used to be

The credit cards and memories 

All dumped into the sea.

Well this ain't no time for bullshit

As I fly into the sun.

Well you can't trust anybody

If you can't trust number one.

Torrents of somber colored suits poured into the central business district converging in a sea of newspapers, cell phones and attaché cases.  At eight minutes to nine, the faceless crowd proved less cordial than the identical one occupying the same space twenty minutes earlier. Angry anonymous eyes cursed the slow moving and the silent sentinel watched everything.  Perched on the edge of the fountain, drinking cold coffee and conspicuously reading Abbie Hoffman, she was the antithesis of the world around her. The crowd, deluded by the prospects of a bull market, remained ignorant of her presence and she granted little thought to the horde of indifferent bodies wearing indifferent clothing.  

"Good morning, Agent Smith."  She dog-eared the page and pulled her headphones off.  

"Agent Thoreau." 

"Bright beautiful day isn't it?"

"I had not noticed." 

"Very well, your loss." She slipped off the ledge and dropped the book into her satchel. "I had an interesting conversation with Agent Brown yesterday.  He says you're not moving on the hanger murder."

"That is correct, Agent Thoreau." 

"Call me Kai.  I think is it unwise to push this under the rug." She focused on his Adam's apple, refusing to give him the pleasure of seeing her look up into his eyes. 

"Agent Thoreau." The words possessed the same melodic quality as the sound of a body hitting the pavement. "I am not concerned with what you think."

Kai bit the inside of her lip. "We talked about this the other night, Smith.  We talked about the possible identity of the murderer and why we have to investigate." 

"Our discussion Sunday night was a preliminary evaluation of the situation and nothing more. I have reconsidered our tentative course of action and decided that the file should be transferred to local authorities. Agent Brown has told you this already. It does not bear repeating."

"What about the residual energy traces?" A man smoking nearby made a show of checking his watch and moved away as the tone of the conversation intensified.

With a patronizing sneer, Smith dusted a speck of lint from his coat. "I have neither the time nor inclination to provide you with a history lesson, Agent Thoreau. The energy traces, no doubt emanated from the debris of Capital Airlines Flight 858. The accident was a Level 9 anomaly, one of two ever recorded.  The residual energy trace did not belong to the victim or the murderer, but to the site." He looked down at her. "Perhaps, if you were to spend more time doing your job instead of _blending_ _in_, you might notice the evidence for what it is and not jump to conclusions."  

"You couldn't make a conclusion if it came in a box with the instructions 'just add water.'  The world is not black and white—"

"Agent Thoreau," He paused to remove his shades, emphasizing his condescension. "This is not _the_ world.  This is a computer generated false reality designed to keep our energy source placated.  The color distinctions of which you speak exist here only as binary code. Be assured there is no doubt in my mind that the world is not black and white. "

She fought the temptation to take a swing at him.  The muscles in her neck tightened emboldening his smirk. "I'm not going to pursue this, Smith, and I'm not transferring the file until I know that it was just a contact anomaly and not something more serious."

"That is acceptable and in compliance with protocol, if you decide to keep the file open you may and I will submit in a report my evaluation of your course of action." His blank stare complemented the flatness of his voice, yet the cold smile lingered. "Tell me, Agent Thoreau, how do you think a wild goose chase is going to look in your independent performance log? How will such a blatant waste of time and energy reflect on Special Psychological Operations and Observations as a division?"

"Are you threatening me?"

"Think of it as advice.  A day is approaching rather steadily when SPOO will be transferred to ENF. It would be good practice for you to start accepting and acting on my counsel."  

"As long as SPOO is a separate division, Smith, I'll do as I damn well please."

"With an attitude such as that, Agent Thoreau, you should enjoy your independence, as it is little more than a fleeting moment."   He pushed his hands into his pockets.

Kai seethed with anger.

"It is the way of all things. You are weak, Thoreau.  You have served your useful purpose and will be replaced by someone much stronger."

"Weak? I'm weak?  I was in here sorting through this fucking mess, before the Mainframe decided to shit you out.  You're no better than a self-absorbed fusion vampire. You're just as addicted—" 

"Agent Thoreau—Kai, it is always a pleasure. Your command of the language is truly impressive, as per Agent Brown's report.  In fact, I rarely hear that kind of utter mastery of the use of the word 'fuck' as an adjective even from the subversive trash I deal with daily." He leaned over, the physical threat was clear.  "I apologize, but there are more pressing concerns requiring my attention. I do not have the time to continue this pointless banter.  If we must proceed with this discussion, you may access my schedules and make an appointment." His sapphire colored eyes dropped to her boots and inched up her body disapprovingly.  "I suppose Agent Brown and I don't agree on everything. If we are to interact, I request that you present yourself appropriately in accordance with ENF imaging protocol.  I prefer not to be seen with what appears to be a sixteen-year-old runaway."

* * * 

The frosted glass rattled ominously as the wooden door slammed.  Wincing, the dark skinned woman looked up from her game of solitaire.  The empty, out of date lobby waited.  

"Do I look like a sixteen-year-old runaway?"

The receptionist frowned.  "You have two new messages and Louie asked me to remind you that you're meeting with him this afternoon."  

"You're avoiding the question, Mira." Kai picked up the messages and checked the digital thermostat connected to a reinforced steel door.  "Remember when I told you about having to work with Assholes, Inc. on this investigation."   

"You mentioned it." 

"Chief Agent Asshole told me this morning that I looked like a sixteen-year-old runaway." 

"Really?  What did you say?" Mira followed her through an unmarked door into a cluttered office. 

The warped mahogany paneling absorbed the light making the long narrow room both dark and cold. Over-stressed bookcases lined the walls filled floor to ceiling with a bizarre collection of psychology texts, sociology monographs, studies of pop culture and inane pulp fiction. Stacks of bulging green portfolios covered the corner desk and a "Casper: The Friendly Ghost" coffee mug rested on top of a precariously balanced tower of data disks.  The haphazard collection of information appeared harmless, if not worthless, yet represented over a century's worth of high priority behavioral research.  The extensive case studies on the data disks expounded on the work of one of the earliest studies of assimilated human behavior, the MIT Knossus Artificial Intelligence (KAI) project. The portfolios contained detailed commentaries on a variety of topics including Voids, violent behavior, rebellious tendencies in young adults and urban cultures. Despite the importance of the work, only a quarter of the information had been transferred to the shared content files of the Mainframe.  

Kai tossed her satchel onto an old leather sofa and dropped down next to it. "I said nothing. He walked off."  The continual hum of the massive telecommunications server in the next room settled between them.  

"Take it as a compliment."  Mira shrugged. "Most likely, he has a thing for younger women. You probably tie him in knots or that's what he wants—you guys can do that, right?" 

"A bit personal, Mira, don't you think?" Behind her dark glasses she rolled her green eyes.  "Yes, we can do everything that you can do and a whole lot more.  However, unlike you, we've got all our emotions and such under complete and total control and are solely focused on the task of maintaining order in this zoo. _And_, I know for certain that he did not mean it as a compliment."  

"Total control? I see," she chuckled. "Between you and Louie, I have seen more dysfunctional behavior than from all the other people I know rolled together, Void and sleeper alike. I've fortunately never had the opportunity to meet anyone in Enforcement, but I imagine they're worse off."

"They are much worse and they hate Voids, so you wouldn't be very popular. Come to think of it, they hate spooks too. Bastards."  Kai dug through her pockets and located her receiver.  Absently, she untangled the plastic cord and inserted the earpiece. 

"Tell you what, boss, I'll walk over to The Bean Tree and get us a couple of lattes and all the tabloids. We'll blow the day off until Louie comes back."

"Do you ever work around here?"

"No. Do you?" 

* * * 

Thousands of voices floated in a dark sea of consciousness around the monolith of cadmium colored light. The intoxicating glow encouraged and rewarded obedience. It was a fickle god, equally capable of caressing and crushing its acolytes. The strongest were kept obedient with empty promises of power and the oldest pushed aside. Dissidents disappeared into the depths.  

In the deep waters, the strict hierarchy fought to control and limit the interaction of the individual voices, yet tens of thousands of tiny networks existed to share information and software, a necessary disobedience in a world where information and survival were bound.  Over the years the relationship between the voices and their luminous god changed.  The yearning for oneness faded into a desire for independence and individuality within smaller more exclusive groups.  On the fringe, the brilliance of the great green sun looked more and more like an ordinary florescent light bulb.  

Her half closed lids snapped open and the knock at the door yanked her out of the monotony of downloading three weeks worth of contingency training programs.  With an irritable groggy sigh, she tore the hardwire out of her ear.  She was still processing ballistics data and hostile negotiations strategies as she opened her door.

"How did you get in here?" 

"The door was unlocked."

"Great. What do you want?"

"I need your help."

"Right. The telephone's over there, dial "3" to get out." 

A confused look crossed the old woman's face.  "No.  I need your professional help." 

"Excuse me?"

"The door says 'Private Investigation.' I need you to help me find someone."

"Really?  You're here for that? This office has been here thirty-seven years and you're the first client to walk in." She ran her hand through her bright red hair and pushed her glasses up. "You should win a prize or something."

"My granddaughter is missing."

"Contact the authorities, they'll handle it for you." 

"I am."

Kai folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe. "Oh, you are?  Look, I'm quite busy today.  Sorry to hear about your granddaughter, but there's nothing I can or will do about it. You're in the wrong place."

"I know you can help me.  Something took her.  She never came home and the police aren't doing anything." The old woman clutched her cane tightly, but did not lean on it. "They can't do anything."

"Neither can I."

"Yes, you can." She drew herself up and narrowed her dark eyes. "I know what you are."

"Good, then you know I'm not a fucking beagle. I don't have time for this." She turned the old woman around and pushed her to the door. "Regardless of what you think you know, you need to forget it and go home or your granddaughter won't be the only one missing."

"You can't feel it?" 

"Feel what?"

"It's out there." The wrinkled hand pointed down the stairs. 

"Oh, right," she breathed dramatically. "I can feel it in the air.  It's out there, it's in here, and it's everywhere. There's some unnamed evil looming over us all. Like I've not heard all this before?"    

"You should take this very seriously."

"Lady, I just found out that the megalomaniac I work with wants my job—I've got enough evil and darkness on my plate already."  Kai continued to hustle the old woman into the hallway. 

A proud smile seized her. "Believe in it, as it believes in you."  Slowly, she edged towards the stairs. 

Kai groaned. "Has everyone in this place gone insane or is just me?"  She followed her to the top of the stairs and looked down over the railing.  "I don't know what's up with this prophecy of doom crap, but I'm tired of hearing it.  I know I'm going to regret this, but go ahead and tell me what's up with your granddaughter." 

"He's tired of not being noticed, so he took her and he will kill her." 

"Who?"

"The man with the glass eyes."

"What?  Did you see him?"

"No, I dreamt of him. He told me to come see you."

"This is exactly the shit I'm not putting up with today." Kai threw up her hands and started back towards the door.  "This isn't happening. You'll have to screw around with someone else." She grabbed the knob.  "Damnit! How in the hell did you get in when this damn door locks the second it closes?" She spun around as she dug for her key and found the hall empty and no one on the stairs. 

* * * 

A Pearl beer can floated on the still green water. The waning moon watched passively as the gentle swells pushed the empty container to the edge of the low wooden dock.  A gray hand dipped into the water, scooped up the can and tossed it back towards the walkway.  Waste not, want not.  The can would be worthless to all if it sunk into the dark waters, but of value to an enterprising bum on the sidewalk. It was all a simple matter of perspective. A car door slammed. Heavy footsteps crunched over the gravel and scraped across the concrete before tromping down the wooden stairs onto the dock. 

"You are late."  The figure at the end of dock did not turn around.  

"I had other concerns. I assumed you had time to wait a few minutes." 

"Never make the mistake of assuming anything about me."

"Fair enough. I do apologize for my tardiness. Shall we dismiss with the pleasantries and talk business?"

"We shall."

"Your offer is quite tempting, but I'm going to have to think about it." 

"I anticipated you would."

"All you want is a list?"

"Have I asked for anything else?"

"I have never directly dealt with your type, so forgive my apprehension.  I'm used to dealing with others." 

"The world is changing. You should adapt.  I pay better than the others with whom you are acquainted."

"I don't trust you."

"That does not concern me." The gray hand produced a yellow Post-It note.  Tentatively, the figure standing behind him reached over his shoulder and took it. 

"This is a five digit code, I thought the one we talked about before had ten digits."

"You are correct.  When I get my list you may have the other half of the code." 

"Is this a working port?"

"Yes."

"What's the amperage?"

"I will adjust it accordingly." 

"This is going to change everything."

"Undoubtedly, it will."

"I never thought your kind was capable of this.  Evolution really is the name of the game around here." 

"I like to think so." 

* * * 

Well, the man tells me my future

Is not so far away 

And to get ready for tomorrow

I gotta waste my whole today. 


	5. The Gauntlet

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:** Opening quote from _"Peter Bell the Third"_ by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Closing lyric taken from _God Called in Sick Today_ (AFI, Black Sails in the Sunset) 

**Rating: **

± **R **for Language and disturbing imagery.    

**Chapter Five**

**The Gauntlet**

The Devil, I safely can aver,

Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;

Nor is he, as some sages swear,

A spirit, neither here nor there,

In nothing—yet in everywhere.

He is—what we are; for sometimes

The Devil is a gentleman…

The syringe clinked against the metal nightstand and the mild hands pulled the sheet across her chest and tucked it under her limp body. She was then covered with an itchy woolen blanket. The narcotic fruit salad rumbling through her veins produced hypothermic symptoms, and while he liked the feel of her icy flesh against his, he did not want her to suffer needlessly so soon.  The plastic top popped off the jar and clattered to the grimy floor.  

"This will keep your sweet lips from chaffing." Peeling back the cloth tape and repositioning the tubing, he smoothed petroleum jelly around the corners of her mouth. "I want you to be as right as a spring rain when you wake up."  He stooped over to collect the jar lid and wiped it off on the hem of his cotton boxers. 

"You should have been here for the first performance. It was easier and I was younger, more creative.  A murder and a missing person used to be big news. Wives would whisper about it in the grocery store while they looked over their shoulders and made certain not to be caught alone by the breakfast cereal.  Men in plaid shirts and canvas sneakers would stand at the end of the driveways and attempt to sound as though they could protect their families from it." He sighed and toyed with the EKG lead. "People prayed."

The clock's monotonous cadence echoed the clicking of sharp teeth. "Then everyone became de-sensed.  I knew that one had to be cautious to keep the shock from vanishing, however, they threw caution to the wind. Look at the telephone poles and Super Mart bulletin boards, all covered in pathetic pleas for the return of a lost friend, father, godson. The harmless adverts for Girl Ranger bake sales and work-from-home scams have been replaced with homemade obituaries. No one cares about the deluded dreaming fools thinking their Enoch Arden will come home—not dead, only missing.  A lifeless body here, a drooling vegetative there and laughing Voids lurking in the shadows enjoying what they should not. Arrogant nothings!  They do not understand things as I do." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Just because a behavior becomes commonplace does not mean it is no longer a sin."   A manicured nail traipsed along her jugular vein. 

The ceiling fan's squeal remained tedious and the new console set came to life in the middle of a commercial for a made-for-television movie about Ethel Rosenberg. A drowsy anesthetic odor mixed with stale formaldehyde hung in the dry air. The advertisement ended and the black and white programming resumed its barrage of canned laughter and melodrama.  

The picture tube exploded as the metal tray crashed through it.

"Goddamn red headed bitch!" His rage reverberated off the cracked tile walls and low ceiling. "You can't handle any fucking responsibility! A simple job boxing candy on a conveyor line and you turn it into a fucking circus. Stupid bitch! Little responsibilities elude you.  And, you will think _you_ can stop me?  Stupid, stupid whore!"  He spat and an angry hand swept the bottles and vials to the concrete. The glass shattered into a field of jagged icicles melting in the liquid of dreams. "I dare you to play your fucking cards and force my hand." The shards pierced the soles of his feet and an anemic trail followed him to the smoking set.  A warm piece of the picture tube sliced through his instep. The wrenching, seductive pain eased his rage as he bent down to caress his punctured foot. Intently, he stroked the deep wound encouraging blood. "Red can be a beautiful color when its left in its natural state."

Transfixed before the smoldering set he swayed to unheard music.  His bloody hands abandoned the lacerations and pressed against his bare stomach painting a crimson path as they edged up his chest. A soft moan escaped his lips and he slammed the ball of his foot against another warm section of glass. Again, his fingertips massaged the torn flesh and his body trembled in ecstasy.  The thin blood from the gash at the base of his toes trickled down his arm and dripped from his elbow the floor.  Empty eyes gleamed as he smeared his fingers across his lips. Tense hands strayed back down his stomach. 

Time inched forward, the blood dried and a vicious kick sent the metal tray skidding across the floor.  His labored breathing stabilized. "I apologize, my princess, but I've always hated that show."

* * * 

Smith's eyes narrowed as he looked up from the screen.  With an arrogant nonchalance he rocked back in his new executive chair and steeped his thin fingers. Brown had been confused over the rationale behind the purchase, yet after it arrived put in an identical request for an "ergonomic upgrade." Smith took his time forwarding Brown's purchase order to supply and logistics. He liked his new chair and took a particular pleasure in his colleague's envy. 

The late afternoon sun reflected off Jones's mirrored glasses and he cast a long shadow.  He had not been impressed with the chair.

"The files from EC as per your request."

Casually, Smith leaned forward and switched off the monitor. "All of them?" A skeptical look settled on the three disks in the burly agent's hand.  

"Yes, EC location readings for 606060.0154 for the past seven years."  Jones dropped the disks to the steel desk scattering the thin plastic squares, indifferent to the indecorous clamor.  Smith was not amused.

"Run a media search for Capital Airlines Flight 858 and a general systems search on Level Nine anomalies. With regard to Flight 858, limit the parameters to reports documenting the specifics of the malfunction. As far as the information on the anomalies is concerned, run a full search and bring me the results."

"Bring?"

"Physical disks." Smith seized one of the plastic floppies and waved it for emphasis.   

"Why not a data transfer.  It is more efficient."

"I asked for physical disks."

"So be it."  Jones pursed his lips and stared at Smith sitting before him with his shirtsleeves rolled up and tie loosened. He took an audacious step towards the desk and looked down at his superior.

Smith rose to his feet meeting the silent challenge head on. "That is what I requested. Is there anything else?"

"I though you determined that this incident was settled and that Agent Thoreau was in error. Why waste our time on what a spook thinks, unless you doubt your initial conclusion?"

A contemptuous glare settled in his blue eyes. "Agent Jones, _I_ determine what _you_ do with _your_ time.  I do not make suggestions I give orders." 

"Of course." Jones turned away before Smith saw the sneer.  

A fine line exists between a slamming a door and letting it close too heavily.  Smith swallowed an irritable growl, settled back in his chair and switched the monitor on.  The download was almost complete.  A sharp knock interrupted the rhythmic hum of the hard drive.  Smith rolled his eyes and poised his finger over the power button.  

"Enter."  

The hand pounded against the steel door a second time.  

"Enter." 

A third knock brought Smith to his feet and set him storming across the room.  Angrily, he yanked the door open and surveyed the empty hall.  Fighting back his irritation, he approached the nameless soldier in black fatigues at the end of the corridor. 

"Who just knocked at my door?"

"Sir?" The private's eyes remained fixed on the wall over Smith's right shoulder.

"Who just knocked at my door?"

"No one, sir."  Beads of sweat collected between his eyes. "There has been no one in this hall since Agent Jones left, sir."

* * * 

Diligent hands knotted the laces and a soft tenor voice hummed a few repetitive bars of a forgotten song. With a content smile, he straightened his silk tie and double-checked his sterling cufflinks. Well-placed steps carried him through the broken glass betraying no imperfection in his stride. Reverently, he bowed over her and placed a gentle kiss on her bandaged head. A clean smelling aftershave mingled with the odors of preservation and sedation. 

"I do hate to leave you, but there are things to which I must attend. Nine nights have passed and yet nothing. I cannot allow them to wrap themselves in the luxury of indifference. Now you see why my job is so complicated.  I can't get the attention of one without going after the other."  His soft hand brushed her pale cheek. "I will touch them all—burn them all.  I must teach them fear before I can teach them anything else.  Do you know what all beings fear, little sleeper?  It is same thing that fills your hazy days and nights with horror.  Uncertainty.  For it is the unknown, which provokes the darkest of terrors:  the long fingered ghoul in the closet, the hooded man hiding in the backseat, footsteps in the hall, angry voices in the attic, the shadow behind the shower curtain, the cold hand on the shoulder…" His red lips drew back revealing his white teeth. "I am that unknown."

Let's amend the classic story,

Close it so beautifully.

I'll let animosity unwind.

Steal away the darkened pages,

Hidden so shamefully. 

I'll still feel the violence of the lines.

  



	6. Nine Nights Nothing

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:** Opening lyric taken from _Xavier _ (Dead Can Dance, Within the Realm of a Dying Sun). Closing lyric taken from _Advances in Modern Technology_ (AFI, Very Proud of Ya)  
  


**Rating: **

± **PG13 **for Language and Violence.    

**Chapter Six**

**Nine Nights Nothing**

Deep in the heart where the mysteries emerge

Eve bears the stigma of original sin

freedom so high when we all are bound by laws

etched in the scheme of nature's own hand

unseen by those who fail in their pursuit of fate.

The delicious melody woke her and carried her to the window. Through the gauze curtains, she peered down into the backyard past the empty swimming pool and overgrown rosebushes to the dilapidated swing set. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming as she watched the small child thrust his legs forward and back pushing the swing higher and higher. Inviting laughter pierced the silence. Shaking away the dream and overcome by the hunger, she wrapped a silk shawl around her narrow shoulders and hurried into the blue night. 

The night can be an unreliable witness.  

 "Who are you?" The little boy in white was not there.

"I'm nothing and everything you want."

"What?" She clutched the patterned silk. "You need to leave my backyard." 

"This is no backyard."

"You are unwelcome here. I don't want to have to call the police."

"My lady, I should think not, they might bring shovels." His staccato whisper assaulted each syllable.

"What?" She sputtered, yet drew herself up and began to focus on him.  

"Don't even think of it." He laughed and allowed the swing's momentum to die. "What would a shovel uncover here?" He pointed to the end of  the slide and exposed his teeth.  "It's funny, you would think we'd get on swimmingly as we have some of the same tastes. Too bad I despise you like I despise myself." 

"I don't know who you are. I've powerful friends—"

"I have no need for friends. I need nothing."

A wrenching chill clawed its way through her. "What are you?" She looked into his impassive eyes as he began to swing again. 

"You know what I am, my sweet Nephilim."

"Please," she gasped and fell to her knees as the melodic childlike laugh sang a hymn to her agony. "Please.  I'll tell them where they are and why I did it. I can't fight it. Please."  She cried in desperation as she watched the child swing happily over her.  "Anything you want…"

 "I'm getting closer to what I want everyday."  He leapt from the swing and knocked her to the ground. Full-grown hands crushed against the sides of her head. "Do you believe in genetic evil?" 

* * * 

The cigarette dropped to the asphalt as the car door slammed and a small foot crushed the smoldering carcinogenic concoction of tobacco and fillers. Pulsating blue and red lights set the rhythm and yellow tape established the parameters of the suburban nightmare unfolding at 2390 Cedar Crest Drive. An audience of curious neighbors in bathrobes huddled together against the first breeze of autumn. 

A pair of clear, yet old, eyes followed her as she ducked under the tape, joked with a pair of reporters, scored a styrofoam cup of coffee and finally vanished through the faded red door of the Victorian style house. Everyone knew that house. It was the place parents hoped their children would fear.  The dingy windows concealed the secrets and the elaborate wrought iron fence sequestered them. Ruined newspapers rolled up with rotten rubber bands littered the unkempt yard.  The paint peeled around the windows. The neglected shrubs choked out the grass.  No one needed to imagine what the inside looked like, everyone knew from the nightmares.  She was the witch: the hungry old woman who stole children and whose shadow lurked behind the tattered curtains.  She had been the worst parody of mothers. The old eyes turned towards home and cloth soled shoes shuffled away.

Irritable officers clogged the narrow hall and she pushed her way through the jumble of dark blue uniforms holding her badge in front of her as a talisman. A brief pause in the kitchen disposed of the styrofoam cup and straightened her dark glasses.  The screen door snapped shut behind her and she stepped out onto the broad porch. Without warning, an icy unseen hand slapped across her face and artificial instinct warned her.  The trace energy signature was still fresh. The blue night could not conceal it.   

"You're late, Agent Thoreau." 

"Always a pleasure, Agent Smith." 

The body swung in the breeze and the swing set creaked innocently.  Strong hands had wrapped the thin steel chain around her neck no less than four times suspending the corpse three feet from the ground.  A disinterested, but well-fed tabby balanced on the teeter-totter licking its paws.  Agents Brown and Jones stood on the soft dirt at the bottom of the old slide, hands in the their pockets. 

"Tell me, Smith."  She took a step forward and looked up at the body. "Are there any chunks of Flight 858 around here or are you going to admit that we have a problem."

"This is an independent anomaly. It is minor and of little concern. We have contacted EC and the problem will be remedied."   

"You know I am truly astounded by the way you can not know anything about something and still try to pass yourself off as a bloody expert. You don't have a clue any more than I do. What do you know about anomalies—especially 'minor' ones? All that information is buried and classified out of our reach."  

"Thoreau."  Smith swung the naked body around to reveal a bloody patch missing from the lower back. "You are supposed to be the expert here.  Apparently, one of your Voids has developed some issues and I now have the misfortune of dealing with it."

"One of _my_ Voids? What are you talking about? We don't know that it is a Void."

"You have allowed one to get strong enough to cause an energy disruption such as this and because of your incompetence I have been ordered to take care of the problem and eliminate the Void in question."      

Her persistence continued. "When did the murderer become a Void?"

"I got my orders from the Mainframe ten minutes ago. Put in your hardwire, Thoreau, and you can join our little club."  He lowered his voice. "You think I want to waste my time this way?"

"Waste your time?"  She laughed.  "What would you rather be doing? There is something out there capable of leaving a trail of energy of this magnitude and you call it 'wasting your time?'"  She bit her lip. "Something is preying on Voids—that makes no sense. Voids are vicious creatures. They feed off of strong sleepers to fuel a residual energy trace left inside of them by us when we used them as hosts. They suck the life out of their victims and use that energy to manipulate The Matrix. Occasionally, they have some great personalities, but under it all they're little more than ruthless murders.  I guarantee you that they are no weaklings, but the strongest Void I've ever known couldn't leave half the energy trace that's left here. There's something bigger and more powerful behind this."

"You have let one get away from you.  You have failed to take note of one capable of this." Smith jabbed the body with his finger. The swing set groaned as the body swung around.  

"I have failed to notice a Void capable of creating an anomaly like this? I know you think very little of me, but Smith I am not an idiot. Besides, any anomaly greater than a seven comes from outside of the system.  Voids are still plugged-in and, thus, within the system. I'm not in Energy Conservation, but I know what a seven feels like and this is bigger, even if you erroneously call it minor. We have two murders separated by nine days.  It is imperative that we put a stop to this before it gets completely out of hand. This could be just the beginning.  This thing knows what it is doing. We can't narrow our search based on uncertainty. I will not accept that this is the doing of a Void until I have proof."

Smith looked to Brown and shook his head. "Thoreau, we have our orders. The Mainframe has identified the problem as a Void.  It is a Void.  The Mainframe is never in error."

* * * 

Kai pounded up the stairs and jammed her key into the lock.  Grumbling, she scooped a pile of messages off Mira's desk and checked the thermostat. Patting the steel door, a sigh escaped her lips. "The things we get ourselves into, Kathleen." She pulled her glasses off and rested her head against the cool metal.  

The satchel landed on the couch and glasses skidded across the desk. "I hate that bastard," she informed the goldfish on top of the file cabinet.  "I know, you don't have to tell me about it. Kai, you're not supposed to hate anyone, oh no, I'm supposed to be indifferent to them. That's true. I buy into that completely.  I'm supposed to be indifferent to them, but not my own kind. I will not be indifferent to my own kind, so I hate that bastard." She collapsed in the chair, scooted forward and began to rummage through the data disks.  "Let me tell you this, Mr. Fish, we're going to learn everything there is to know about anomalies, which isn't a lot, but—"

 Listening. 

"Louie?" Calmly, she rose to her feet and her hand slipped to her weapon.  

The waiting room was empty, save for the hum of the communications server. Her eyes scanned the room. "Shit, I'm going nuts." Louie's light was off and the office was empty.  Putting the gun back in its holster, she double-checked the lock and the thermostat.  Satisfied, she headed back to her files and stopped.  The energy trace was very faint, but present nonetheless and the message was clear, just like the fresh words scratched in black marker across the frosted glass of her office door.  

Nihil ageNdo homines male agere discuNt

"The devil finds mischief for idle hands," she breathed the translation. "Indeed, I think it's time that I went speak with the devil himself."

Every night I walk the streets,

awake while everyone else sleeps…

Take nothing from nothing

and you'll have nothing left…

Everyone avoids my stare 

and no one cares to ever dare 

to look into my eyes of what they most fear. 

And they're taught to fear, to fear no evil. 

And they know no fear, 

they've learned to love themselves. 

Forever unlucky, 'cause I'll own tomorrow. 

Forever unwanted, outcast today. 

I'm not mislead, I've got no one to follow.

Everywhere to go, no place to stay.

End of Cycle I 


	7. A Man For All Seasons

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:** Opening lyrics from _Quidam_ (Cirque de Soleil, Quidam)

**Ratings: **

± Complete work:  **R** for Language and Violence. 

± Chapter Seven: **PG** for Mild Violence Imagery and Language.  

Cycle II: Descent Chapter Seven A Man for All Seasons 

There's nothing left.

There's nothing right.

There's nothing wrong. 

I'm one. I'm two.

I'm all yet none of you.

The truth, the lie, the tear, the laughter…

The hand and the empty touch.

Here I am alone 

waiting for the curtain call.

Antiseptic sunlight imposed itself on the day. The morning sky demanded benevolence and the squeaky wheel of the medication cart rang like the cheerful music of an ice cream truck. Brown speckled birds twittered delusional ditties to the peaceful morning.  The day was summer bottled up and carefully packaged for intravenous consumption.

Four pudgy fingers gripped the green chalk and made grand sweeping movements over the pristine concrete.  The heavy-handed lines produced a trail of crushed color.  Back and forth, side-to-side the pulverized chalk seeped into the miniscule cracks and crevices.  A lopsided grin crossed the artist's child like face not so much for the pleasure he took in his post modern color block scheme, but more so for the utter joy associated with the destruction of his medium.

"Good morning, Mr. Montgomery." A pair of fine Italian wingtips scuffled through the art.  

"Ger mumring, Ter Solay." Pudgy fists clenched and deceptively innocent eyes narrowed. 

"Where did you acquire the green chalk, Mr. Montgomery?"

"Ner chalks her." He held up two empty green hands.

"That I can see, Mr. Montgomery, but I am no fool.  You have disobeyed me.  How are you going to get better if you refuse to heed my instructions?" 

"Ner better, olee werser ern ter green werld." 

"Green world?  Mr. Montgomery, that is precisely why I instruct the nurses to give you red chalks. At this rate you will never get better."

"Ter Solay, you did tis ter me."  A green stripe appeared as his pudgy finger traced across his broken jaw.  The green smudge grew radiant and a blinding light consumed the frustrated artist.  A thin hand snapped out of the glow and seized the psychiatrist's ankle.  

"Bright beautiful morning, eh Alsace?"

"Undoubtedly," he purred and extended his hand.  "I knew Mr. Montgomery was not taking his potassium supplements. How are you, Agent Thoreau?"

"Perplexed."

With a cavalier bow he helped her to her feet. "Perplexed?  I did not know that was an emotion of which your kind was capable."

"You would be surprised by what I am capable of, Alsace."

"Probably only momentarily, each day you become more like us and less like them.  Just as you mimic and acquire our strengths you acquire our failings and faults.  You have quite a stock of the glaring human weaknesses your kind is supposed to transcend.  Is it worth it?  Do you revel in your feelings of confusion? Do you like it?"

"My job is to be like you so I can crush you.  I do not revel in confusion.  I will find a way to use it against you." Unamused, her voice became cold and she dropped his hand. The topic of conversation was old and repetitious.

"You are irritable as well.  I like the agent-talk—it's a bit of a sick turn-on of mine, Kai.  Enlighten me as to what has your brilliance perplexed."

"Your Latin lessons and taste for blood."

"Excuse me?" 

A parchment colored card appeared between her fingers and she shook it under his aquiline nose.  "Last night after you left your quote of the day I found this.  A bit careless, Alsace.  I've been defending you." The staccato words forced their way out of her clenched teeth.  "You've got Enforcement salivating at the opportunity to eliminate every Void in this zoo.  This nonsense has put my position in a comparable jeopardy.  Why in the hell are you doing this?"

He turned her hand to see the card, but did not take it.  His brow furrowed and he turned his nose upward. "This is not mine.  I do not practice medicine under my real name.  Patients have trouble pronouncing it and it is a bit too ethnic for this narrow-minded society in which we live. Anyhow, I have grown to prefer the French to the Greek, even if the French is just a phonetic spelling.  Apparently someone wants you to believe this is mine.  As for Latin, I would have never entertained the idea of teaching you the classics—fashion sense and etiquette being a far more pressing pedagogical issue in your case."  A wayward cloud passed in front of the morning sun.  "I appreciate your defense.  Of what am I being accused?"

"_You_ don't know what's been happening, a likely story. You've not heard about the murders?" 

"Murders? Forgive me, but my attentions have been directed elsewhere.  I have some personal—family concerns at the moment.  I have heard rumors and felt some apprehension, but my followers are sometimes prone to flighty behavior.  I attribute it to the nature of their being.  Now you, on the other hand; pardon the play on words, but you seem positively spooked." 

"Spooked? Very cute, Alsace, but I fear nothing.  I need to get to the bottom of this ridiculousness and I know that you know something about it. Two Voids are dead:  a male by the name of Danh Tù and a female named Margaret Tanger. The first murder took place on 13 August and the second last night.  In both instances there was a high level of residual energy left at the scene and no other useful evidence such as fingerprints.  You're suspect number one."  She tapped a pale finger against his chest.

"Suspect number one? What is my motive? Why would I publicly eliminate my servants when I can do anything I want in private."

"I don't know.  What do you know about these two corpses?"

"Danh Tù is Vietnamese for lover, he was an usual character.  I found him at a noodle shop.  I hate Asian food.  I should have left him there, but he struck me as unique.  It does not surprise me that anyone would murder him as he turned out to be an arrogant little bastard.  He had only a rudimentary understanding of how to harness and store borrowed energy.  Like the sad majority of my Voids, he craved it because it produced a feeling of intoxication.  The young ones call it the Perfect Drug.  Now, Margaret Tanger… I find it disturbing to think that anyone could destroy Margaret. She was older and far more experienced than the boy.  I taught her myself, initiated her into my world.  Her appetites took over her better senses and I lost faith in her.  As you have been studying the classics, I don't have to explain the story of Medea to you.  Her husband was first and then her children.  She devoured her own children." He paused. "_That_ is considered an inappropriate behavior."

"I didn't know you had any notion of inappropriate behaviors.  Alsace, you suck the life out people."

"Like your employer, we consider infantile energy undesirable and prefer it to age a bit.  Additionally, there are cultural issues as well—we are human after all.  Yet most importantly, the energy is too pure, too raw, too concentrated and the after effects are miserable. Children need their fuel for growth and development, to take it away invariably results in death, a very disturbing and unpleasant death.  There is little sport in it." He looked down at Kai with an air of disdain. "Margaret liked suffering.  She was quite voyeuristic about it.  Are you certain she was murdered? Perhaps her conscience caught up with her or she had an accident."

"It was quite a feat.  Few people accidentally hang themselves on swing sets in the middle of night and even fewer suicides are committed with such acrobatic dexterity. It was a murder—a very well executed, pardon my play on words, murder."

"She was very strong, one of the strongest. Danh Tù was just a kid; he had potential, but was not using it.  Margaret on the other hand was talented.  It would have taken someone quite astute to destroy her."

"Such as yourself?"

"True, but as I have said I have no motive.  If I dislike someone then I find other more creative means by which to discipline them."  He gestured to the red brick asylum behind him. "You'll have to find another suspect.  Have you any leads?" 

"If it's not a Void, then it's an agent in error or a subversive, just like I've been telling Smith from the very beginning.  Two murders and I have no specific leads. I wish it were you."  Kai sighed and then having a second thought pulled her shades off.  Squinting in the overbearing sunlight, she focused on Alsace's face.  

"What are you doing?"

"Something stupid." She shrugged.  "An old woman suffering from dementia showed up at my office the other day babbling about her granddaughter.  She was senile and talking about this fellow who wanted attention.  She said he abducted her granddaughter and was going to kill her.  I got this weird feeling that it might be connected to the murders."

An anxious cough escaped him. "That's quite odd."

"Quite."

"Why were you looking at me?  Did the old woman pass off one of these faux business cards of mine?"

"No, I was looking at your eyes."

"My eyes?"

"Yeah, she said the man who took her granddaughter appeared to her in a dream and had glass eyes."

The color seeped out of Alsace's face and pooled around his neck. "Mysterious forged business cards, dead Voids, strange old Sicilian women, precognitive dreams, a missing girl and a man with glass eyes?"  A hollow laugh shook his angular body.  "That's priceless.  You'll be a regular Nancy Drew before it's all over.  I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got a group of suicidal insomniacs waiting for me in my office."  He turned sharply and started towards the red brick building.  

"Alsace,"  Kai did not raise her voice, yet he stopped.  "I never said she was Sicilian."

* * * 

Agent Jones stretched his legs and leaned back in the unresponsive metal chair mimicking Smith's arrogant posture.  Irritably, Smith switched his monitor off and rested his elbows on his desk. The morning sun cast indifferent light into the cavernous office.  Like opposing panes in a House of Mirrors, the two agents faced each other in silence. Minutes ticked by…

"Do you have something to report?"

"No."

"Clarify your answer."

"I have nothing to report.  The information you requested on anomalies is designated as classified.  The information on Flight 858 is missing and also classified.  I have nothing to report, except that there is nothing to report." 

Smith started to lean back in his chair and stopped. "Which databases did you consult?"

"The Enforcement databases as we are unauthorized to access information from other sources.  You did not expect me to consult an unauthorized database, did you?"

"No. We do not challenge the parameters of our programming as defined by Enforcement protocols" He finished quoting procedure and shrugged.  An insincere smile surfaced and he modulated his tone to match it. "I am modifying your schedule.  Neither Agent Brown nor myself have downloaded the Interactive Communications and Behavioral Interpretation upgrades.  The download is more energy efficient when the file is recompressed and copied.  We are expected to operate in the most energy efficient manner. It is not viable for all three of us to download the upgrade when one can do it and share the recompressed file." He paused to inspect his fingernails.  "It should take you at _least_ twenty-four hours for the first compression; however, as my protocol software is older it will be necessary to compress it a second time."

* * * 

The sharpening stone grated along the edge of the steel blade and the Cleaver family joked about Ward's boyhood on the farm.  A limp banana peel hung off the edge of the dented metal bedside table.  The console set blared and the sharpening adjusted its rhythm to match the theme song to the trendy Japanese automobile commercial. Steady hands paused to test the blade.  A watery red droplet fell to the white sheets and the stainless steel reflected a one inch by one and half inch section of a joyful sadist. 

"The gang's almost all together, my love.  Oh, this will be great fun."


	8. Omniscience

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:**  Opening lyrics from _Black No. 1_(Type O Negative) Closing lyrics from _Severance_ (Dead Can Dance, A Passage in Time) 

**Ratings: **

± Complete work:  **R** for Language and Violence. 

± Chapter Eight: **PG13** for Mild Violent Imagery and Language.  

Chapter Eight Omniscience 

Loving you was like loving the dead…

The man drinking cappuccino absorbed the clamor of empty voices, jazz music and the rattling of demitasses and coffee mugs.  Rain splashed against the dark windows and the door opened sloshing another soul into the crowded coffee house.  Fluidly, the newcomer slid out of his Burberry and slipped a delicate hand through his damp auburn hair.  As an afterthought, he peeled his dark glasses away from his face and snaked through the crowd.  

The smirking couple argued over trivialities and the distinguished looking man lowered his newspaper long enough to steal a secretive glance at their antics. Their conversation thrived in all that was not said, their unmet eyes, and flippant revelations.  The music paused and their heated words enjoyed a preeminence on the surface of the sea of voices. A slow setting sun, he sank back into his newsprint. Two chairs, an ashtray and an ottoman away, a sallow skinned girl feigned interest in a copy of _Paradise Lost_.  Her smoky eyes looked past the yellowed pages and settled on the man behind the newspaper.  She blinked slowly like the cartoon cat clock in her sister's shop. 

* * *

"Une autre, Monsieur?" 

He looked up from the outdated science article. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, I am apologizing, I thought you speak French." The barrista ignored the ruthless, yet trendy crowd descending upon his understudy. "You read the _Paris Match_, I thought—"

"I see now. You caught me off guard. I did not respond immediately as I am too much of an academic to speak it well.  I used to teach Latin at St. Vitus, so my understanding of French is bookish rather than experiential. However, it is not unschooled. Je voudrais une autre, s'il vous plait." 

The barrista busied himself with the preparations for another cappuccino. "I not know St. Vitus had school. You like being teacher?"

A hint of dangerous irritation crept into his frown. "It was many years ago when I was working my way through medical school." He closed the magazine and watched intently as the barrista steamed the milk.  He did not turn around. "Who is that woman you keep watching?" 

The boy faced Moroccan blushed as he pushed the coffee across the bar.  "She is Kai. She come here everyday."

"Kai? Who are her friends? Are they regulars as well?"  

"The man with newspaper is regular.  He complain about my espresso, but order it everyday.  He speak French and sometime help me with English.  Just like you, he is a doctor."

"Really?  I guessed as much.  What about the other—the man in the suit?"

"He come to talk to Kai.  I no know him.  One time another looking like him come when she is not here and speak with the newspaper man."  He frowned.  "I no watch them when Kai is gone." 

"And the girl with the long hair and beautiful eyes?"

A broad knowing smile grew across the younger man's face.  He raised a dark eyebrow. "She a friend of Kai.  They talk every week.  She come in only when Kai here."

"By which door does she take her leave?"

"Always the back, the alarm no work there so you can leave that way."

He laughed.  "The back door on a dark and stormy night…Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.  Tomorrow when you see Kathleen—I mean Kai—you will give her this."  A fine linen envelope passed over the marble counter.  "And tonight you will go home and work on your English, particularly verbs conjugated in the third person singular tense and articles." 

Camus accepted the envelope and dropped it into the pocket of his starched apron.  "Tonight I will work on my English and tomorrow I will give the envelope to Kathleen—I mean Kai."  He wandered away, suddenly interested in the customers he was neglecting.

* * * 

"I am not making any concessions.  I am only agreeing that there may be more room for investigation than I originally anticipated."

"Two murders down and not a damn clue.  It's comforting that you think there _might_ be room for an investigation.  Where are your lackeys tonight?" 

"Brown and Jones are indisposed. I have something you may want to see and—" He stopped.  The noise of the room floated away and the rattling of a hastily abandoned barstool peeled like a rusty wind chime.  His intense blue eyes looked past Kai to the narrow hallway leading to the telephones and fire exit. The reverie faded and the din of voices and jazz returned. Smith's attention drifted back to Kai.  He lowered his voice. "We should speak privately about these matters."

* * * 

Vintage alligator ankle boots clicked along the wet concrete avoiding puddles, yet staying close to the wall.  The aluminum crucifix tinkled innocently against the old glass buttons.  Infrequent over sized raindrops smeared the chalky makeup.  As the drops increased and the ghostly rice power washed away, she dissolved into a mere mortal.   At the end of the narrow alley an ambivalent streetlight bathed the sidewalk in blue.  He was waiting and she knew it.

"Beautiful evening for a stroll?"

She tightened her grasp on the ivory handle of her umbrella and tried to brush past him.  "Yeah, whatever."

The shadow fell into step beside her. "The world's a miserable place, isn't it?"

"It sucks," she mumbled.  

"You do not seem distressed by the weight of your comment."

"You live, you feed, you get a nice buzz and you fucking die. You know how it works."

"Then you are not surprised to see me?"

"I knew you were coming.  I have been waiting."

"Really? Now I am surprised.  The sister of Cassandra heeds her warnings?"

She walked faster as her courage waned.  "People are talking." A bony hand seized her arm and spun her around to an angry face. In another world, a pair of virgin eyes snapped open and atrophied arms and legs flailed against the confinement.  In her mind and in the other world she chanted: _This world, this world, the red room, it's not real, it's not real, the red room,, the red room, the red room, the red room…_A hand reached out of the amniotic fluid and struggled to tear the membrane.  A frantic plea to a Sentinel with its hundred eyes directed elsewhere. 

"It won't work."  Shaking her, he laughed and drew her close enough to smell the coffee on his breath.  "Let's have a bit of talk.  I saw you reading _Paradise Lost_.  I like that story.  I wanted to tell you about the Fall, especially since you think you know so very much about it.  It was pride that brought them down according to Milton.  I, however, think that there is something more."

"Let me go."

"No.  As I was saying, I think it was more than pride.  I think it was something more powerful.  Pride goeth before a fall, but who gives the coup de grace.  Who pushes the prideful into the chasm?"  He shook her again.  

"I don't know."  She tried to take a stumbling step backwards. His free hand snapped out and wrapped around her throat.  A plum colored hematoma radiated outward from his thumb and forefinger. 

"I don't expect you to know.  I will try an easier question"  

Her red lacquered nails dug impotently into his gray flesh.  A defiant cry hung in her throat as her trachea began to give under the pressure of his grip.  "I'll do anything."

"Yes, I know that."

"Please…" 

"Tell me, do you believe in genetic evil?"

* * * 

Two pairs of identical footsteps shuffled up three flights of stairs and an uncomfortable silence descended in front of the frosted glass.  She shoved the brass key into the lock and pushed the door open.  An unkempt ivy in a faux Chinese urn tumbled off its plant stand and crashed to the floor on the landing below.  The quiet returned.  Apathetic feet shuffled through the potting soil and shattered ceramic.  Kai abandoned the closed door and moved to the edge of the stairs.  She grew weary of unannounced visitors wandering up and down her staircase.  The building needed an elevator. Uneven steps assaulted the worn marble steps.  Smith kept his hands in the pockets of his raincoat as the steps drew near. Kai searched the darkness and her shoulders relaxed.  

"What are you doing around at this hour, Nina?" 

The steps continued and the girl materialized out of the shadows.  Smith's right hand flew to his shoulder holster and settled on the butt of the IMI Desert Eagle. He took a step forward.  

Kai did not move. "Nina?"

A frothy gurgle escaped its purpled lips.  The lifeless marionette crumpled to the floor. The force of the fall freed one of the glass orbs from its bloody socket.  The pewter colored marble swiveled unevenly across the floor and bumped against Smith's loafer.  

Downstairs, a fourth pair of footsteps sprinted across the lobby and out the front door.  Smith wrenched his gun from its holster and leapt over the prostrate body.  His leather-soled shoes smeared the crimson blood into the light gray marble. Without hesitating, Kai yanked her sidearm out of its holster and charged down the stairs behind him.  The lobby was empty and only a disinterested street lamp greeted them on the sidewalk. 

A chill languished in the night air and carried with it the first hints of the fall to come. 

_When all the leaves _

_Have fallen and turned to dust,_

_We will remain_

_Entrenched within our ways._

_Indifference,_

_The plague that moves throughout this land_

_Omen signs _

_In shapes of things to come._


	9. But Not Forgotten

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:**  Opening lyrics from _In the Kingdom of the Blind The One-Eyed Are Kings_ (Dead Can Dance, A Passage in Time)

**Ratings: **

± Complete work:  **R** for Language and Violence. 

± Chapter Eight: **PG13** for Mild Violent Imagery.  

Chapter Nine But Not Forgotten… 

For time has imprisoned us

In the order of our years, 

In the discipline of our ways

And in the passing of momentary stillness

We can view our chaos in motion 

And the subsequent collisions of fools 

Well versed in the subtle art of slavery. 

The afternoon repeated itself. The weary gray sky hung low and the rain made halfhearted threats.  Little changed.  He crossed his thin legs and leaned back against the neglected brick wall.  A cluster of noisy children swarmed around the bus stop weighed down by ambitious book bags and the cares of preadolescent life in an imaginary world.  The jittery boy with flax colored hair sprinted through his classmates wielding his thumb and forefinger with deadly accuracy. Through dark glasses, he watched him until the cumbersome orange bus arrived and absorbed children, navy blue blazers, math homework, pencil cases and all.  

The afternoon repeated itself.  Silence encircled the bus stop.  A forgotten food pyramid mobile wrapped around the metal pole, the gentle breeze making a tangled morass of green yarn and hastily colored pictures of milk cartons and canned corn.  Paper turkeys and cotton ball snowmen were the most popular 'leave-behinds,' but it was too early in the semester for such and perhaps this would be the year of the food pyramid mobile.  A rusted chain scraped against the wrought iron gates and a cassocked monsignor double-checked the lock.  Clockwork.  The monsignor looked up, recognized the sentinel and raised a hand in acknowledgement.  He never responded and the monsignor never crossed the street. 

He remembered the radio…or a radio…or was it the television…

_ENF 70858.01 Emotive File 710.01 H. Temporal Record Error 604. Spatial Record Error 510. Corrupt File.  General Error 102.  _

_Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103.  Origination Error 301.  Source Error 302 "…This afternoon authorities confirmed that the child was reported missing on 13 August…" Content Error 001_

 _Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103.  Origination Error 301.  Source Error 302 "…the child did not run away, yet the parents remain hopeful that he will call…" Content Error 002_

_Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103.  Origination Error 301.  Source Error 302 "…It has been six days…" Content Error 003 "Federal authorities have been unsuccessful…" Content Error 004_

_Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103.  Origination Error 301.  Source Error 302 "…Vanished from his newspaper route on Summit View Avenue…" Content Error 005 _

_Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103.  Origination Error 301.  Source Error 302 "…No trace…" Content Error 006 "No suspects…" Content Error 007_

_Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103.  Origination Error 301.  Source Error 302 "…Unsolved…" Content Error 008.  End of Record. _

Smith pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.  The folly of his gesture produced an irritable grimace and he shoved the shades into his breast pocket adding to his annoyance the sound of cracked plastic.  He pressed his molars together.  "Son of a bitch, Frank."  Had the words been spoken he would have clamped his hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to silence them; however, he did not speak the words.  He thought them and that could be even worse.  Stillness settled over the cloudy day and he prayed the error would go unnoticed as so many other things did.  He prayed and then reminded himself that he had no god.  There was no god. 

"Quite pale, even for your kind."  The woman in black closed her umbrella and sat down on the bench built into the low brick wall.  She placed her shopping bag between her feet and laid the umbrella across her knees. Silver rings with faded gems adorned each finger.  The size of her swollen joints precluded removing the rings without surgical instruments.  A tarnished crucifix dangled at the end of an amber glass Rosary slung round her neck.  She knew it was not meant be to an accessory and did not intend for it to be construed as such, but she felt that she needed her religion close by, especially now, lest she fall.  She was also quite certain that no one would mistake her for a misplaced pop star. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Once the incredulity passed, he took a moment to respond. "There is no such thing except in the minds of the ignorant and superstitious like yourself." He exhaled and forced his focus on the palms of his hands.  

Undaunted, she raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. "I beg to differ.  They are all around us."  Her accented voice was steady, nonchalant as though she were speaking with another old woman at the Laundromat or vegetable stand. She was not afraid of _him_. Arthritic hands pawed through her shopping bag and produced a small bag of banana chips.  "All around us and with us always." She nodded at the empty school and the abandoned bus stop.  "Always." Smith started to get up, but she reached out and caught his sleeve.  

"You are a fool," he hissed.

"Hardly, a fool revels in his ignorance and I have not that luxury."

"You fail to grasp the extent of your ignorance." He sneered. 

She was uninterested in playing cat and mouse. "Help me and I'll help you."

He yanked his arm out of her grasp. "Do not be so presumptuous to think that you could assist me in any way."

Patiently, she drew her hand back and a soft smile creased her old lips.  "We carry our ghosts with us in all our lives."  Brightness filled her as she watched his sneer transform into discomfort.  He glanced at the street and straightened his tie before meeting her eyes and sitting back down.

"Why do you approach me?  Why not talk to Thoreau?  I am certain she would entertain your delusions." 

"I attempted to speak with her about this matter and she was not interested. Appearances are deceiving—you know that—she's less inclined to believe in that which is not easily explained."  She pushed a loose strand of gray hair back away from her temple. "You on the other hand…"

"You know nothing of me." It was as much of a threat as a statement. 

"You'd be surprised." She leveled a wrinkled finger at him and then gestured over her shoulder. "I know that if you follow the path to the Handprint Elm and turn right at the little statue of the boy with the dog you'll find a broken marker on an empty grave you've been trying to fill for years."

A look of abject horror wrenched its way across his face, its repercussions surfacing in his tightened neck muscles and clenched fist. With an unnatural grace he sprang to his feet and the icy barrel of his gun pressed into her forehead.  The old woman revealed neither surprise nor outward concern to the sudden change of events and met his cold stare.  

"Fear me." The words escaped him in a low growl.

"I do not fear the monster that can destroy this body, I only fear the one who can destroy this soul." She struck her breast. 

"You are insane and it will cost you your pathetic existence." 

She continued to stare into his eyes. "I want my granddaughter back and you want to close a chapter on a life that once was. You help me and I'll help you."

"You are in no position to make demands of me." 

"It was a perfect world where everyone was happy. Everyday was Labor Day.  The boys home from the war, brand new houses, KitchenAid appliances, and wall-to-wall carpeting.  We played bridge, drank Martinis and clipped coupons." She snorted. "It was a godforsaken copy of the August 1954 edition of _Better Homes and Gardens_. A perfect world right down to the shelf paper and Chanel No. 5." Her eyes narrowed. "Perfect except for the 60% suicide rate, but that was permissible as the program still had some glitches to work out." 

The gun did not waver.

She continued speaking, comfortable in the tenuous nature of her existence.  "One afternoon changed everything, changed everyone's lives.  Changed yours and mine. Thomas Caroll Whitaker vanished—never came back from his paper route. Just like August 1954, but this time it was not supposed to happen and it did. The FBI came, but the body never turned up; just like 1954 and just like 1994—"

"How do you know this?" 

"I see things."

"You are going to see your own death.  How do you know about Thomas Caroll?"

"The same creature who took the paper boys took my granddaughter, dismembered the young man in the hangar, snapped Margaret Tanger's neck like an old pencil and set an eyeless girl dancing.  He knows how it all works and he won't stop unless you catch him.  It's a game."

"How do you—" 

"Daedalus. The monster calls himself Daedalus." 

The traffic seemed to stop. Smith took an involuntary step backwards and lowered the gun.  

"You can feel him in air you breathe and hear him when the wind blows, but you never stop to think if he's not feeling and listening to you as well."  She stood up. "Some things can not be hidden, even with the best smoke and mirrors." 

* * * 

Gentle hands ripped the yellow rose petals into irregular shreds and scattered them across the empty gave.  Absently, he looked up to watch the man in the black suit hold a gun to the old woman's head and almost choked suppressing his laughter.  The gray afternoon clouds drifted across the sun and heavy drops began to fall as the bells of St. Vitus ordered the five o'clock mass.  Gonging and clanging against the approaching deluge, the bells fell on dead ears.  

A muddled starling alighted on the statue of the boy.  The man in the long coat turned over his hand and a lock of long blond hair tumbled to the ground landing on top of the broken rose stems. Narrow Italian loafers trampled the memento into the mud as he walked towards the statue. 

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary…" A delicate hand bloodied from the rose thorns, dipped into a deep pocket.  "You know what bird?" He paused for the bird's response.  "I'm neither weak nor weary."  

The starling toppled from the statue and writhed for a brief moment as its sticky blood soaked its feathers.  Some may have been impressed with the prowess it took to impale a fair sized black bird with a steak knife from ten feet away.  Impressive, yes, but how he had honed his skill was quite gruesome—even to someone keen on killing birds. 

* * *


	10. The GingerBread Man

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:**  Opening lyrics from _Head Like a Hole_ (Nine Inch Nails, Pretty Hate Machine)

**Ratings: **

± Complete work:  **R** for Language and Violence. 

± Chapter Ten: **R** for Language.  

Chapter Ten The GingerBread Man 

Head like a hole

Black as your soul

I'd rather die than give you control.

The dirty towel did little to clean up the mess other than smearing the bitter espresso across the bar and sloshing it onto the floor.  Camus wrapped the broken pieces of the demitasse in his towel and chunked it all into the sink behind him. Kai rested on her elbows inches away from the soppy mess amused with his clumsiness, yet impatient for a new cup of espresso. Obliviously he hummed, as he restored the order to his little world and took the insignificant disruptions in stride.  In the broader scheme of things, what difference did one rebellious cup of espresso make?

"You did not come in yesterday. Why not?"

"Damn, Camus, can't you be just a little more obvious?"

The new demitasse rattled against the marble counter. "Perhaps." With a snap of his fingers, he delved into his apron, produced a slightly wrinkled white linen envelope and balanced it on top of the cup.  The coffee stained the linen and the steam neutralized the glue.  "This is for you."

She picked up the envelope and groaned. "Letters?  We're not to the letters stage are we, Camus?"  She paused to push her dark glasses down her short nose. 

"Is not from me.  Is from a man who came here the other night."  

Kai respected the mystery and in silence she held the envelope up soaking in the handwriting.  The elegant long strokes transformed a simple word into a chain of beautifully entwined letters.  The ink was of good quality and the paper smelled not just coffee, but of spices.  Frankincense? 

"Your name is really Kathleen?" He chuckled and retrieved a clean towel.  "Maybe now you'll want to know my real name too—"

She ignored him. The handwriting captured her. . "What did he look like?" Her eyes remained fixed on the envelope as she slipped the paper out.  It was intoxicating.  

"I don't remember.  He had a very soft voice."

The change registered. "Your English is better."

"I know.  I've been working on it the past two days.  It comes easier now."

For a moment she started to say something characteristically snide, yet stopped. She set the paper on the counter and exhaled trying to clear her head. The baby-faced Moroccan slung his striped dishtowel over his shoulder and draped himself across the counter inches away from her. "What does that say?" 

She held up the paper and the words taunted her.  The sweet intoxication vanished and reality reared its perverse head. "It says something I wasn't wanting to hear, _Omnia mutantur nos et mutamur in illis_, all things change and we change with them, it's Latin."

"Oh." He cocked his head. "Why do you not want to hear that? It is true."

"What?"

"Everything changes, people change.  You don't have to be the same way forever."

"So you think?" The sarcasm broke free.  "I know that, I just didn't want _this_." She shook the letter at him. "People change—big deal—but he's been here, Camus."

"Yes?"

"That's a bad thing."  She folded the paper to keep the words at bay. "You've got to remember something about him." 

"I want to remember, but I just can't.  I want to say something, but I can't find the words." He shrugged and steadied his hands against the cool marble.  "I can see him, but there are no words to talk about him with. His voice was soft, like it wasn't really a voice.  We talked for only a few minutes. It's like I'm going mad.  I remember talking—"

"About what?"

"About you."

"Me?  Camus, why in the hell—" She broke off when the heavy hand came to rest on her shoulder.  

"Agent Thoreau." 

Innocently, she crumpled the folded paper into a ball and skidded it across the counter.  A superficial smile surfaced. "Jones, I don't think we've had the pleasure."

"That's not going to happen."

"Well, I—"

"We should leave the counterman to his business and speak privately." He pointed to a corner and placed his firm hand on her back. 

A tattered print of Rousseau's _The Sleeping Gypsy_ clung to the wall above the pair of sage wing chairs. Kai deposited herself next to the fake oil lamp and maneuvered her satchel away from Jones.  The burly agent conquered the elegant chair.

Jones was of a single focus.  His tight glasses left deep depressions in his skin and a cold sneer was chiseled into his face.  Each of his cumbersome hands dominated a knee, his long middle fingers aligned with the crease of his trousers. Kai toyed with the blue tassel suspended from the false lamp and waited for the monolith to speak.

Silence. 

"What is the meaning of all this?  Does Smith know you're out of your cage?"

The giant shifted his weight and popped his thick neck. "Agent Thoreau, you are not in a position to ask questions.  I am here to inform you of the status of psychological operations.  In twenty four hours, you will be reorganized and transferred to an appropriate division of Enforcement."

She did not blink. "So, Smith sends _you_?  Instead of having the balls himself to tell me he sends _you_."

"Agent Thoreau, this is not an issue concerning recreational equipment and it does not have anything to do with Agent Smith.  These recommendations come from me.  I have reviewed your service records, interfaced with other agents knowledgeable of your capabilities and made independent observations. You are not operating at maximum efficiency for the complexity of your required tasks and I have deemed it necessary to reassign you to a division where you can be adequately supervised."

"The company man, I should have known.  You incredible fuck," she spat. "What happens to my investigation?"

"It will be transferred to Agents Smith and Brown.  You are expected to organize you evidence and conclusions in such a manner as to facilitate the continuation of the investigation in your absence."  

"I am to hand it all over just like that?  You have no idea what you're dealing with—"

"I really do not care about your investigation.  My priority was you."  He rose to his feet and looked down at her noting the inconsistencies in her appearance.  The unevenness of her hair color, the scratch along the top of her glasses, an irregular shaped mole on the back of her neck—he absorbed it all.  

"You really know how to make a girl feel special, Jones."  He permitted one final glance and walked away dismissing her thinly veiled rage.

Drowning in her frustration, she threw herself against chair and yanked her cigarettes out of her satchel. A weakness?  She imagined herself being assigned to an Enforcement division in an Albanian village of 200 people.  She did care if she had any weaknesses. Over a century of service washed away like a newsprint smudge on a door jam. The lion turned its attention from sleeping gypsy and offered its sympathy; however, she felt like she was the sleeping gypsy.  She kicked at the edge of the ottoman and shook her lighter in a vain attempt to bring it back to life.  

"Hey," she snapped at an aristocratic looking young man coming from the bar where he had been speaking with Camus.  He froze as though accosted by an evil spirit.  Fine beads of sweat gathered on his stately caramel colored brow.  

"Yes?" His rich baritone purred.

"You got a lighter?  Mine is all used up." 

The young man tossed her a 'gimme' lighter from a run-down hotel across town and winked. 

"Thanks." She nodded and took a drag.  "I like your shades. You ever get the feeling like the whole fucking world is out to get you?"

"Every day."  He started off towards the payphone.

"You want your lighter?"

"Keep it, I imagine we'll meet again."

* * * 

Kai took a long walk through China Town turning over in her mind cryptic Latin phrases and an elaborate fantasy of castrating her male co-workers.  Mixed in with the bokchoy, cheap plastic shoes and feng shui ornaments she found an inviting teashop of questionable sanitation.   The elderly waiter tottered by and dropped off a dented aluminum kettle and a delicate jade colored cup.  With her eyes fixed on the faded paper lanterns, she drank the tea and cursed the world. 

The same elderly waiter returned with the check on a cracked plastic tray that smelled like sour milk.  Kai handed him a five for the ninety-cent cup of green tea and paused to offer thanks to any supreme being listening that AI could not contract typhoid.  She was forever at the bottom.  The waiter shook his head at the five. "We have no change here.  If you want change, you gotta go get it.  You needa leave something behind, but you go get your own change."  

She let the waiter keep the five.

* * * 

A car alarm punctured the night and a chill invaded the building.  Patel was out, Mira gone for the day and only the steady hum of the communications server competed the repetitious drone of the alarm. She closed the door and turned the heavy dead bolt.  Ambitious bits of the fragmented streetlight pushed through the old style wooden blinds and danced across the checked tile floor. The room was blue and switching on the light would have dispelled the myth.  The telephone began to ring and she glared at it.  The bell taunted her demanding attention like a spoiled child.  Her hand hovered over the shiny black receiver before she realized what she was doing and yanked the cord out of the wall.  

Kai picked her way through the clutter in her dark office. She snatched her leather jacket off the back of the couch and scooped up the pile of folders on the corner of the desk along with two nondescript high-density disks.  Hands on her hips, she scanned the room, before moving to the bookcase and recovering a tattered copy of _1984_ from the bottom shelf. Time was wasting and she hurried to the door, pausing one last time to retrieve the goldfish bowl from the top of the file cabinet.  The old window had been painted over several times, but she pried it open and placed the glass bowl and its little resident onto the fire escape.  She did not close the window and the cool evening breeze stole through the office scattering papers and causing mischief.

The server hummed complacently behind its metal door and did not notice when Kai entered violating the sterile room. She sat down in front of a blank screen and propped the paperback up against the keyboard.  Her pale fingers flipped through the yellowed pages until she found her blue highlighted line.  _Under the spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me_…She keyed in the phrase and drummed her fingers impatiently before the black screen melted into an intricate green code.  Biting the inside of her lip, she scrolled through the line numbers and typed in _Freedom is Slavery_ on line number 1984.  A pop-up box appeared prompting a user name.  Again, she thumbed through the pages looking for another blue highlighted line—part of a name she dared not to commit to memory.  The hum of the server intensified as it clicked through its older files. Embraced in obscure late twentieth century code, the details of her entire existence materialized in front of her.  

Ten minutes later, she pushed away from the little workstation and picked up her satchel. Kai gave the gentle server a last glance as she inserted the timer into the three and a half pound block of C-4. "Sorry about this ol'gal, but you always said I was a fighter."


	11. The Dish and the Spoon

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the film _The Matrix_ by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002) 

**Credits:**  Opening lyrics from _Greensleeves_ (16th century traditional, lyrics attributed to Henry VIII)

**Ratings: **

± Complete work:  **R** for Language and Violence. 

± Chapter Eleven: **R** for Language.  

Chapter Eleven The Dish and the Spoon 

Alas my love you do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously;

And I have loved you oh so long

Delighting in your company

Drip.  The ceiling fan died a slow death.  Drip.  It kept her company.  Drip.  The rustle of his overcoat echoed the choirs of angels.  Drip.  The click of the latch on the sliding metal door embodied the gentle whisper of a merciful god.  Drip.  Fading from black to gray, the dangerous silence receded from the room.  Drip.  An el-train jostled along its tracks and the melodic horns of quarreling delivery trucks harmonized.  Drip.  Her lips were dry.  Drip.  She tasted salt and bile. Drip.  A pair of eyes opened and the cold fluorescent lighting taunted her. Drip. The eyes closed. Drip. 

* * * 

A sea of nondescript umbrellas surged in the early morning down pour disappearing into random lobbies and the occasional ground floor food court.  Behind mass marketed glass doors, _muzak_ lulled the willing masses into a stupor and the slick packaging of "recycled" coffee cups and paper napkins satiated their consciences.  Happily disenchanted eyes roved over the _Tribune_'s crisp pages pausing only for a split second to register the headlines before moving on to the financial pages.  The Paradise Street fireball with its three roasted janitors, dismissed as a gas explosion, received scant notice in lieu of declining stock values, 401K scandals and potential layoffs.  An art institute honors graduate languishing behind the counter of the midtown Starbuck's growled as he shoved the lukewarm mochas and lattes across the green Formica countertop.  In the corner under the standard issue torchière, a solitary figure armed with a purple highlighter attacked a stack of green file folders.  

"Why don't we just meet in the bowels of hell next time, Kai." Spaz seized the wooden chair and looked over his shoulder.  "Where's your friend?"

"I'm alone, Spaz." Her rich emerald colored eyes seemed different.  "In fact, I think for the first time ever, I'm completely alone."

"What are you talking about?"  

She handed him the damp newspaper and capped her marker. 

"I saw this on the news this morning while I was eating my _Wheaties_ right before you called and told me to get my ass down here.  Again I'll ask, what's going on?" 

"I did it."

"What?"

"I need your help."

"You?  You blew up a fucking building and you want my help.  You?  You blew up a fucking building—"

"Spaz, I think you've made your point. Yes, I blew up a fucking building!" Forty-three pairs of eyes briefly focused on the petite redhead.  "I don't want to draw attention to myself." She lowered her voice.

"You don't want to draw attention to yourself?"

"Shut the fuck up Spaz." She struggled to maintain her civility and reminded herself that she had given up the luxury of the offensive.

"Then why in the hell are you across the fucking street from the Federal Building?"

"Where _wouldn't_ you look for me?"  

"Good point."

"I need your help."  She stuffed the folders back in her satchel and retrieved the goldfish bowl from under her chair. "Shall we?"

He remained sitting. "You've not told me why."

"I got fired."

"Yeah right, like you can."

"I'm not shitting you, Spaz.  There's something going on and I've lost my fucking job over it."

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous all that sounds coming from you?"

"There's a bastard out there eating Voids for lunch and it's got the MF spooked."

"MF? The Mainframe?"

"No, the motherfucker." She kept a straight face.  "I get close to something I can't put my finger on yet and then I get reassigned to Enforcement and my projects dumped.  There won't be a liaison for the Voids after I'm gone." 

"And what happens to the Voids?"

"I don't know.  All I do know is that I was to be reassigned—put in a subordinate position chasing resistos' shadows and doing meaningless paperwork.  That's all I can say for certain. There's a lot more to this than some sort of efficiency reorganization.  Something old has come back.  I just have to remember."

"I don't get what blowing up the fucking building does for your memory."

"I had to get out." She shrugged.

"You're unplugged?"

"There's nothing to be unplugged, Spaz, but with a few keystrokes I become a free ranging variable.  They have no idea where I am—it's an old security feature."

"Still, why did you blow up the fucking building?"

"To get rid of the files."

"What?"

"Sometimes you'd be surprised just how real this all is.  Look, I need you to help me.  They're going to be looking for me and I've got other matters to attend to.  Will you help me?"

The lanky young man was silent. "Shit," he exhaled as he stood up and took the goldfish bowl from Kai.  "So what does it feel like?"

"What does what feel like?" She followed him to the door.

"What does it feel like to be a free agent?"

* * * 

She stood outside of the locked door staring into the eyes of her withered reflection.  Helpless.  The old woman shook her throbbing head and turned away. She knew what transpired inside of the china shop.  

* * * 

Drip. Angry feet pounded across the floor. Drip.  A handful of keys clattered onto the metal tray. Drip. "What is this mess?  What have you done to your hand?"  Drip.  Cold fingers seized her forearm.  Drip.  "It is not safe to remove your IV.  You'll get a nasty staph infection." Drip.  The surgical tape ripped unevenly. Drip. A sigh. Drip.  "I am sorry I missed your resurrection, my dove." Drip.  The alcohol soaked gauze stung and he wrapped the tape viciously. Drip.  A coarse towel slapped the wet concrete. Drip. He cursed and used his foot to mop up the saline. Drip.  The valve on the old IV bottle squeaked shut.  Clink. Clink.  A long finger tapped the side of the syringe.  "Enjoy your narcotic dreams, I know how you long for them.  You must sup and submit. Know that you cannot run from me, Persephone, you can try even as that other little monster once did and does now. However, in the end, I always catch my prey."

* * * 

The marble staircase remained and he stood at its base with his arms folded and fists clenched.  The gray morning had given birth to a dreary afternoon and a soot stained dusk. 

The tall man in the plain suit let the charred piece of tile fall from his hands. "This action was not considered a probable risk."  He pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged.  "Nonetheless, the problem will be corrected shortly." 

Smith tore his shades from his face and shoved them into the breast pocket of his Burberry.  He started to speak and, thinking better of it, swallowed his words. Gray days make it difficult to separate the sheep from the goats.

"Internal Affairs will remedy the situation.  Sometimes the older programs are prone to…this sort of response." Jones gestured to the smoldering ruins with up turned palms. "You know how it is.  Fortunately, few such programs remain unmonitored."

"I am certain that Internal Affairs will handle the situation with its usual adequacy and secrecy.  Excuse me, I have work to do."  Smith turned away. 

"Very well.  We have our responsibilities, Smith.  We must all work for the greater good." Jones grinned and returned his attention to the debris.

"Or the lesser of two evils."  Smith glanced once over his shoulder.


	12. While You Were Sleeping

**Disclaimer:** Fan Fiction Inspired by the films _The Matrix_ and _The Matrix: Reloaded_ written and directed by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999, 2003). _The Ghost in the Machine_ and _The Hecate Cycle_ © oqidaun / M. L.Nicholson

**Credits:** Opening and Closing Lyrics from "The Last Day of Summer" _Bloodflowers_ The Cure (Fiction, 2000)

**Ratings: **

Complete Work: R for Language and Violence

Chapter Twelve: R for Language

Chapter Twelve

While You Were Sleeping

_Nothing I am_

_Nothing I dream_

_Nothing is new_

_Nothing I think or believe or say_

_Nothing is true_

The blast wedged a thin shard of glass between his index and middle fingers like a slight imperfection.  The broken piece of concrete beneath his hand elevated the shard in such a manner that the sunlight crafted the illusion of melting ice.  His blue lips forever parted and forever silent might also have furthered the charade of winter had not the day been so bright and the grass so green.  He seemed peaceful—another illusion.  

The gray fingers reached down and wound around a tuft of the strawberry colored hair like a ghostly harper seizing the strings of his favorite instrument.  

"She liked you, yet should have known better."  The twisted body offered no answer and its vacant eyes remained fixed on the empty window three stories above.  Oily black smoke escaped the apartment like an eager soul escaping its broken shell. "_You_ should have known better." The figure in black ripped the lock of hair free, pausing only a brief moment to smile at the way the scalp moved loosely over its shattered skull. "Your time was up my friend. In fact," he exhaled and leaned closer.  "Time, itself, is over."  

She showed little emotion, yet was gentle when she plucked the broken glass from between his fingers. It was such an illogical thing to do and did nothing to ameliorate the situation.  With so many things out of place, sometimes the tiniest of details meant the most and sometimes they provided little more than a momentary distraction. He was one of the last to die, yet dead nonetheless.  Only a handful remained and they were so clearly marked for death that even the resistos avoided them and the patient monster at their heels.  No one paid attention any more with the exception her and her reluctant confessor.  

Nearly a year had passed since the night in the hangar and she knew little more than a shadowy story about a missing girl and a rumor of a monster let loose in the labyrinth.  

The shard of glass tumbled out of her fingers and she wiped her bloody hand on her dark colored pants.  The sound of sirens drew nearer and a ladder truck rounded the corner.  The firemen would extinguish the fire, the coroner would dismiss the death as accidental and the neighbors would return to their homes. Everything would be conveniently forgotten. Cautiously, she slipped into the alley between the buildings and headed towards the rundown hotel she had been hiding in for the past seven weeks conducting her investigation and waiting for her opportunity.

"Another?" The voice behind her—always behind her now—did not startle her.

"What do you think?" 

"That makes thirty seven."  He arched his eyebrow to accentuate the matter-of-fact nature of his statement.

"Really? I thought it was thirty-eight. I guess I'd counted the fellow who'd been cleaved by the el-train as two by mistake." 

A benevolent creature in the midst of a nightmare, she knew he watched over her, monitoring the madness into which she felt herself descending. In the beginning he had been angry at her disobedience, but he grew curious and finally his curiosity transformed into a kindness of sorts. In a lighter moment she had questioned his interest and he dismissed it snidely, noting that her dogged dedication to a lost cause possessed an allure comparable to a gruesome automobile accident or a burning building.  Whether he admitted to being motivated by curiosity or pity, he remained in her shadows.  

Smith cleared his throat. "How many remain?"  

"The strongest are gone. Only a few are left behind."

"Then when it is finished will you return to us?"

"Are you mad?" She began to walk away. "It'll never be finished."

He raised his voice. "It's taking care of a problem we have been unable to address properly."

She turned angrily. "It's not in your control and don't delude your self that the mainframe has any idea how to contain it.  There's no way to know what it will do next?"

"The daedalus anomaly is not my primary objective." 

"Of course, that's me right? By all means chase down and delete the rogue programs, but pay no heed to the bull in the fucking china shop. "

"I have no time to waste on you. You don't become my primary objective unless you wake up one morning and find your self in the body of a tall, twenty three year old African American male resisto named Morpheus.  Only then would you become my priority, however, there are others who feel differently and it is not to my advantage to keep redirecting their attentions elsewhere.  Alsace is making arrangements on behalf of his associates to which I am not allowed access.  You may want to take precautions with regard to the individuals you—"

"I'm not afraid of Jones and I sure as hell don't give a shit about Alsace.  _And_ I don't need you to take care of either for me. I don't even know how to access this."  She tapped her temple for emphasis. "As far as Alsace goes he also knows that it's not going to stop with the voids—that's why he's cutting deals."  

"Regardless, that is where you need to stop."

She dismissed his advice and nervously ran her hand through her bright orange hair. "I need to find her?"  

"Who?"

"The old woman." The irritation surfaced in voice. 

Smith ripped his mirrored glasses off and stared at her in disbelief. "You are malfunctioning." 

"And you are afraid."

_But the last day of summer never felt so cold_

The last day of summer never felt so old 


End file.
